The Chronicles of Winchester HC
by intjsherlocked
Summary: The ultimate collection of hurt!Sam and protective!Dean. From sicknesses to injuries, at least Sam always has his big brother Dean to count on. No slash.
1. Concussion

_Hello, Supernatural fandom. I'm new to the fandom, but not to fan fiction - I've written plenty for Sherlock. I've been binging Supernatural and am midway through season 12, and now I can't deny it any longer - I've fallen head over heels for yet another fandom. Oops._

 _I'm a huge fan of hurt!Sam stories because who doesn't love a bit of h/c and big brother Dean? This will be a collection of unconnected one-shots that all involve Sam getting incapacitated in some way, shape, or form (sorry, Sam). Some will be serious, others minor fluff._

 _I accept prompts, but note that I don't write any slash._

 _In this chapter, I'll start with something basic to get accustomed to writing Sam and Dean, so there'll be a concussion. Forgive me for any errors; I've never had a concussion nor am I a medical professional. This is set during season 8._

 _I'll stop monologuing now. Enjoy._

"Dean, turn the radio down."

"I like this song."  
"Come on, man," Sam said, yanking out his left earbud. "I've got my earbuds in, so the least you could do is turn down your-"

"No way," Dean said, keeping his hand purposely near the radio in case Sam attempted to turn down the volume.

"Just turn it down a bit, Dean! I don't like this… electric guitar solo." Sam frowned at the music, as though the fact that it was electric guitar offended him.

"Learn to," Dean said, humming along to the tune only because he was sure it would get on Sam's nerves. "Calm down, man. We're here anyway." He eased the steering wheel to the left to pull into the driveway of a rundown trailer that had kids' toys scattered across the lawn. Rain was misting slightly; drops of water had gathered on the Impala's windshield and small patches of mud speckled the dirt driveway. The sky was a uniform dark gray with low fog blanketing the evergreen trees.

Sam had found what seemed to be a vengeful spirit in Missouri. The past three owners had all been killed - found dead with bones shattered and bruises blooming over their bodies as though they'd gone for a spin in a washing machine.

"Here," Dean said, tossing Sam a gun filled with rock salt once they were out of the car and standing, heads ducked, in the cold spray of the soft rain. "In and out. I want to get back to the bunker in time for the game."

"You got the lighter?" Sam asked, lifting the bag of salt. "The local legend better be right about the body being under the floorboards. I'm really not in the mood to dig up a grave tonight."

"Let's just get this done," Dean grumbled, scowling at his boot as he stepped in a rather deep puddle. "This is the fourteenth angry spirit in a row. We need a vamp, or a werewolf. Anything!"

"Careful what you wish for," Sam said, cocking his gun and stepping inside the so-called "haunted trailer", according to local stories.

They wandered into the living room, lowering the guns slightly.

"Supposed to have died in here, right?" Dean asked, glancing at the floorboards that had a suspicious dark brown stain on them.

"Yep," Sam said, bending down with the metal tool they'd brought to rip the floorboards up. Dean waited next to him; it didn't take long for the board to come up. A musty skeleton was revealed below, its hands reaching towards the wall as though clawing to get out.

"Rest in peace," Dean muttered, pouring salt over the skeleton. A sudden gust of cold air made him stop in his tracks, sighing at his now-visible breath.

"Why do they always decide to show up at the very last minute?" he complained. "Sam, cover me."  
Sam nodded, aiming his gun for any spectre that could appear. There was a dead silence when suddenly the couch next to them slid forward, knocking them both off their feet and covering the hole that exposed the spirit's skeleton. They leapt to their feet, scanning quickly for any sign of a spirit.

"Dean!" Sam shouted. "Duck!" He fired off rock salt at the scrawny ghost of a man that had appeared behind his brother. Dean obliged, falling to his feet as the salt made the spirit disappear. The silence came back, and all that could be heard was the soft rain on the roof.

"Think he's gone?" Dean said in a low voice, lifting the bag of salt again. "Don't want Mr. Scrawny getting too annoyed and throwing the couch at us again-"

"What's that sound?" Sam asked, his voice so quiet that Dean could hardly hear.

"The voices in your head, probably," Dean said, smiling to himself in spite of the situation.

"No, shut up! I hear something!" Sam insisted. "It sounds like… a rock." He moved to the window and peered outside. "Uh, Dean? He's… pulling rocks out of the ground."  
"You've got to be kidding," Dean said, rubbing a hand over his face. "Help me move the couch!" Sam instantly joined him and helped heave the large sofa off of the hole in which the skeleton laid.

A sudden crash from a rock shattering the window sent splintering glass over them, but the glass didn't just fall to the floor - it was sent, like projectiles, right at them. Dean instantly dove, bringing Sam to the floor with him.

"Light the body!" Sam yelled, ducking as a rock went flying for him. He shifted so that he was guarding Dean, who was pouring lighter fluid over the corpse. A rock went flying at him and he attempted to block its arc from hitting Dean by catching it.

"You alright?!" Dean asked sharply.

"Fine," Sam wheezed, clutching his chest. "Is it done?"  
"Lighting it," was Dean's reply, and the _snick_ of the fire hitting the body announced that it was over. Sam turned to his brother, awaiting the yell that would signify the end of the spirit.

However, it wasn't the expected scream that came next but instead a shouted warning from Dean before a dense, excruciating force cracked into the back of his head. He staggered forward, falling to the ground and clutching at his head which felt as though it had been cleaved in two. Darkness swallowed the edges of his vision as he foggily heard the shriek of the spirit before he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Sammy!" came Dean's concerned voice. "Are you alright?"  
"Fine," Sam responded woozily, his head spinning. "Ow."

"It got you right before it burned," Dean said regrettably. "You sure you're okay? Concussion, maybe?"

Sam concentrated on the question, playing his brother's words over in his head before realizing what he was being asked. "What?" he asked. "Oh. I mean, yeah. Wait, no. Uh… are - are you okay?" He glanced over Dean, checking for any injuries from his position on the floor.

"I'm fine. I wasn't the one who was just hammered in the skull by a rock," Dean said, shaking his head. "Let's get back to the bunker. Man, you were _nailed_." He put out the fire, once the skeleton had been thoroughly charred, and looked down at Sam. "You planning on getting up?"  
"Yeah," Sam said quickly, and clambered to his feet awkwardly, gripping the edge of the couch. His vision tunnelled into darkness again and he waited before moving for it to clear.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked, his face swimming back into Sam's view again.

"Uh… waiting for the darkness to go away. Orthopedic hypotension," Sam said, recalling the term rather randomly.  
"Geek. Any day, now?"

"Yep," Sam said, his mouth dry. He paused as they stepped out of the door, craning his neck. "What's that sound?"

"You're not hearing possessed rocks again, are you?"  
"No. Just a really… high pitched sound." Sam winced slightly, following Dean out to the Impala. "Nevermind. I think it's nothing."

"Yeah, alright, Sam. You're totally fine. I think you've got a concussion," Dean said. "Come on, get in. Don't you dare vomit in Baby," he added warningly, and though his tone was stern, he watched Sam carefully as though afraid he would hit his head again climbing into the car.

"Oh," Sam said suddenly before wrenching at the car door handle and flinging himself out, heaving on the ground. Bile came up and he spat it onto the ground. Dean was immediately at his side.

"Dude. How many fingers am I holding up?" he asked, waving his fingers in front of Sam's face.

"Four," Sam groaned, pushing his hand away. "I said I'm fine, Dean. It's a small concussion. Nothing to worry about." He didn't bother to mention the dull ache that was pulsing behind his eyes. "I'll just… sleep on the way home."

"No, you're not, concussion boy," Dean said. Sam frowned, then got back into the car, Dean following suit. The latter started the engine, and they drove off, tires squealing in the mud. An hour passed with only the hum of the Impala ringing through the air. Dean had neglected to turn on the radio this time, and Sam couldn't help but feel slightly mollified by it. The pounding behind his eyes had heightened and he clenched his fists, willing the pain to stop.

"Sam? Hey, you're not allowed to sleep," Dean said suddenly. Sam opened his eyes.

"I wasn't," he said stubbornly. "It's just… headache." He contemplated the nausea swelling in his chest and choked. "Dean, pull over!"

Dean must've heard the panic in his little brother's voice because he pulled over immediately, and Sam tumbled out of the car before puking up a watery, orange substance onto the ground once again. He coughed, wiping his mouth.

"At least it wasn't in the car," Dean said, standing protectively near Sam nonetheless. Sam stood up, trying to hide the immense headache that was now splitting his head into pieces. He staggered slightly and Dean's hand shot out to his shoulder.

"Hospital?" Dean asked.

"Nah. Let's just get back to the bunker. Not the first concussion ever," Sam reminded him, spitting onto the ground again. "We're nearly back."

Dean paused, considering his brother. "Sammy, you know you can tell me what hurts, right? You don't have to pretend that you don't have a concussion," he said gruffly, sliding into the car again.

Sam snorted. "Yeah, okay, Dean. Next time you fall, or a spirit tosses you around, let's talk about exactly what hurts, then we can put a band-aid on it." He wasn't sure why he was irritated, but the feeling of being pitied was not one that he welcomed.

"Don't be a bitch," Dean said, and smirked slightly. "I always hate when you're concussed. You get so emotional."

"Dean!" Sam said, annoyed.

"It's the truth."

Sam opened his jaw to respond, but they had arrived back at the bunker and he didn't feel motivated enough to follow through. Instead, he shut the car door, ignoring the flare of pain through his head when it closed loudly. Heat rushed to his head suddenly and the black at the edges of his eyes filled his vision so quickly that he had hardly any time to react.

He opened his eyes mere seconds later, realizing that he had briefly passed out. Dean was supporting him entirely.

"Give me a better warning next time," Dean said.

"Sorry," Sam said, slightly meekly, and aware that his words sounded a bit dazed. "I'll be fine after a night's sleep."

"You're not going out of my sight."

"Dean, you do realize that I'm an adult-"  
"If we're not going to a hospital, then you have to let me make sure you don't… pass out and knock your head, or something equally stupid," Dean said firmly, and arm around his little brother he led him back into the bunker.

 _Well, first chapter: done. Like I said, some hurt!Sam will be serious, others will be more light-hearted. It's pretty obvious that this was the latter._

 _As stated previously, I accept prompts. Leave your prompt in a review or PM me._

 _Follow if you want to stay updated for more! I'd be so, so grateful for any follow, favorite, or review - it really makes my day! Thank you so much!_


	2. Shock

_This chapter will be set in season 5. Forgive me for any timeline issues, because I can't quite remember which episodes have which conflict between Sam and Dean and also whether or not Cas has grace. I'll get better, I promise. I just need to rewatch everything._

It was dusk when the Impala rolled into the small, snow-covered town in Maine. The sky was alight with pink hues but slowly fading to night, and the pine trees were frosted with a layer of fresh snow from the morning before. Only the streetlights provided illumination because there weren't any neon signs or lit up shops.

"I'll go check in," Dean said, shutting the engine off once they had parked by a dark, feeble-looking motel. Sam waited in the car for him, swiveling his head around to look back at what was "downtown". There was one pub, it appeared, but nothing more.

"Room 103," Dean said, reaching into the backseat to grab his bag. They unlocked the door and stepped into the motel room, which was gray in appearance with two brown blanketed beds.

"I need to get to the coroner's office at seven tomorrow morning," Sam said briefly, setting his bag down. "I requested yesterday to examine the bodies. While I'm there, you can go check out the first vic's family. I already talked with them and they're willing to meet at 7:30 for breakfast at the diner."

"Lovely. You know I love those early morning appointments," Dean said, sighing a bit dramatically, and falling into bed. "Why is Maine so cold?"  
"There's more snow expected tomorrow," Sam told him. "You can wear your long johns."  
"Shut up."  
Sam went into the bathroom and put toothpaste on his toothbrush, then emerged while brushing his teeth.

"So, I'm thinking it's a witch, but we need to check the crime scenes for hex bags first," he said, his words muffled by the toothbrush. "Three young men found dead from shock?"  
"Definitely witchy."

"Yeah. I mean, as far as I know, they didn't have any other wounds."

"Well, let's go kill some witch tomorrow," Dean said, pulling tin foil out of his bag, "after a night's sleep and a burger." He unwrapped the tin foil and Sam wrinkled his nose.  
"Dude. That's from lunch."

"So? Lunch was only five hours ago."

"So, that burger has been sitting in your bag for five hours. The meat is spoiled now," Sam said patiently, as though speaking to a child. Dean shrugged, the burger in his left hand, then sniffed it.

"There's no mold. It smells fine," he protested. "If it _smelled_ rotten, obviously I wouldn't eat it-"  
"Bacterial contamination can manifest before two hours have passed for unrefrigerated food," Sam said, and quickly took the burger out of Dean's hand to throw it away.

"What are you, a cooking geek now?" Deak asked, reaching into his bag for a bag of pretzels instead.

"It's common sense."

"Whatever."

* * *

"Alright. Meet me back here at 8:30," Sam said, climbing out of the Impala. "Try to get the vic's family to let you into their house so you can search for the hex bag."

"Yeah. Go have fun with the dead bodies," Dean said, grinning as he pressed on the gas and left Sam by the coroner's office.

Sam went inside, presenting his badge to the secretary. She was young and pretty, with rich dark hair.

"Agent Chaucer," he said quickly. "Scheduled to meet a Dr. Finne in the morgue?"

"Let me see your badge," the girl said, holding out her hand to take it. Sam brushed her hand giving it to her. She analyzed it, before smiling at Sam. "Continue down the passage. Would you like me to take your jacket for you?"

"Thanks," Sam said, obliging and then continuing down to the morgue.

"Hello. I'm Agent Chaucer. We were scheduled to meet this morning?" Sam asked, shaking the pathologist's hand. "Do you mind letting me take a look at the bodies?"

"Sure thing. I'm Dr. Finne," the doctor answered. He was old and had a distended stomach, and his hair was almost shockingly white. "First vic is Rodney Hampton. Twenty-seven years old, died from shock - nothing else."  
"What kind of shock?" Sam asked, examining the body.

"As far as I can tell, psychogenic shock," the coroner said, raising his eyebrows. "There weren't any flesh wounds. But the symptoms were that of hypovolemic shock."

Sam met his eyes, bewildered. "How was it fatal, if there weren't any wounds?"

"Beats me. Experienced all symptoms of shock, but there were three things wrong about it. First, there seemed to be no cause of the shock, for any of the victims. Second, none of them should have died from it. And third - it took five hours for them to die. Never seen anything like it."

Sam looked away from the corpse. "Five hours? As in, the symptoms began and five hours later they were dead?"

"Yes, sir. Prolonged shock that shouldn't have been fatal but was. I'm thinking of labeling it as a new disease - it's baffling."  
"Alright. Thank you very much, Dr. Finne. If anyone else comes in here, or experiences this weird shock, let me know, okay?" Sam handed his number to the pathologist and left, pulling out his phone to text Dean.

 **The vics died of a sort of hybrid of shock. I'm going to check the second vic's family. Meet you at the motel later.**

With that, he continued down the street to where the second family lived, according to Dr. Finne.

* * *

"Tell me, Mrs. Hampton - did Rodney say what he was feeling before he died?" Dean asked, leaning forward.

Mrs. Hampton sniffed slightly. "Yes. And… the w-worst part is, we ignored him… we didn't take him seriously. He… he said that he was cold, and I told him to p-put on a sweater. That was all. I should have asked more, I should have-"

"Ma'am, there's nothing that you could have done," Dean said reassuringly. "Don't blame yourself, you couldn't have known."

A tear trickled out of Mrs. Hampton's eye. "But he was so _ashen_. It was only when he got dizzy that I… bothered to actually take a look at him. But it was too late."

"We drove to the hospital," Mr. Hampton added. "He… died on the way there."

"I'm very sorry for your loss," Dean said. "I very much appreciate you talking to me. We're going to find out what happened, I promise you."

"Thank you, Agent," Mr. Hampton said, shaking his hand. Dean smiled sympathetically while standing, then left, pulling out his phone to read a text from Sam. That only left the third vic's family.

* * *

"Hey," Sam said, coming into the motel room after having walked the short distance from the third vic's home back downtown. "When'd you get back?"  
"Only five minutes ago," Dean said. "What'd you find?"

"Everything points to a witch still. The vics died of five hour long shock. No wounds at all on them."  
"Yeah. The first and third vic were apparently really popular in town, and described as friendly and warm - at least, until they started dropping with clammy skin."

"Same for the second vic," Sam confirmed. He moved to the other side of the room, adjusting the thermostat. "It's only going to get colder now that the snow's coming down."

"So, what now? Research?" Dean asked, a bit of a scowl on his face for the expected answer.

"Yeah. I'll check the town's history and see if there's anything unnatural," Sam said, pulling his laptop out.

"Well, that leaves me to do research with the locals," Dean said, chuckling to himself as he grabbed his regular clothes and went to the bathroom to change out of the fed suit. "I'll get the juicy local gossip."

"Go to the pub," Sam suggested.

"Where else would I go?" came his brother's voice from the bathroom. "Sammy, the pub is where I belong. I'll talk to some hot chicks, maybe gank a witch… who knows?"

"Yeah, well, we need money, so you should try to win some pool games," Sam said, glancing at their thin wallet.

"On it, Sammy," Dean said, coming out of the bathroom with his flannel and tee on. He left and the sound of the Impala coming to life roared through the air before fading into the background of the town's ambience.

Sam continued to search for local lore and history, but there was sparing information about the small Maine town. The room's temperature felt cooler from the snow falling gently outside, and he turned the heat up more, burying himself under the blankets comfortably.

There was absolutely nothing on the town. The three deaths from shock were the only deaths in the town's history that were remotely strange.

The air in the motel room was getting dry from the pumping of the heater yet Sam didn't feel up to turning it down. Instead, he continued to ransack articles from years ago and recent news on any other activity that could signify a witch, or even a coven.

He hadn't realized two and a half hours had passed until Dean returned with a fistful of money and alcohol on his breath.

"It's a sauna in here," he noted.

"Sorry. I didn't feel like turning it down," Sam said, then paused. "Keep it on, actually."

"You're kidding, right?" Dean asked. "You've got to be kidding."

"It's snowing, Dean! It's… cold!" Sam pushed himself up and swung his legs off the bed, then realized he'd stood too quickly. A wave of vertigo rushed to his head and he swayed slightly. "You're actually hot?"

"Yeah," Dean said, confused. He strode over to Sam to press his hand to his forehead.

"Dude!" Sam said, flapping Dean's hand away. "I'm fine!"  
"Not when we're in a town where men your age are magically dropping dead of shock," Dean said seriously. Sam relented at that.

"Yeah. You're clammy," Dean said, turning around quickly. "Search for hex bags. If it's a witch, there's got to be a hex bag."

Sam shakily moved forward, feeling bone cold inside now that he had left his bed. Dean was rummaging under the mattress, wildly tossing items left and right. Sam joined him, stripping the blankets off of his bed.

"Where could that bitch have put it?" Dean growled, frustrated, turning to the end table. "I'll check the car."

Sam moved to follow, but Dean put out his hand. "No way. Stay in here, and stay warm. I'll search it quickly." He left Sam standing, shivering, in the hall.

It was then that he felt it, in his pocket. A small lump in his pocket. He reached in, fumbling, and pulled out a hex bag.

The secretary, at the morgue. She'd taken his jacket when he went inside.

Sam staggered over to the door and opened it. A gust of wintry wind mixed with a profusion of sharp, stinging snowflakes swept into his face, making him blink rapidly.

"Dean!" he called out, and he wasn't sure why it was so important to tell his brother that he'd found the hex bag - surely Dean would return to the motel room in a matter of minutes, anyway - yet he called out for his brother, who was somewhere in the mess of falling snow across the parking lot.

The motel door was difficult to shut against the wind, and he had to tug hard. The wind knocked him sideways and he fell into the snow of the parking lot.

This was a stupid decision. Dean would be angry with him for walking out into the blizzard with shock symptoms. Sam struggled to his feet, and saw Dean's form running over.

"Sam, what the hell are you doing?!"

"I found the hex bag. In my jacket," Sam said weakly, and the wind howled again, sending him sideways. Dean steadied him, leading him back to the motel.

"You're a moron."

Sam could feel his teeth chattering. "I had to tell you where it was."

They got inside of the warm motel room and Dean slammed the door before taking the hex bag out of Sam's hands and destroying it swiftly. "When did you start feeling cold?" he demanded. "When I left?"

"About then."

"Alright. Assuming that destroying the hex bag isn't reversing what's already done, we have less than two hours to gank her."

"She's the… secretary. Young woman at the morgue." Sam sank onto the bed. "Let's go."

"You're staying here. I'll get her," Dean said. "Stay warm. Lay down and keep your feet elevated. Don't pass out. I'll be as quick as I can." With that, he left.

* * *

"Hello. I'm Agent…" Dean had forgotten his chosen alias and quickly said the first thing that came to mind. "I'm Agent Castiel. May I speak with the secretary?"

"You're talking to him," the young man said behind the counter. "Is there anything I can help you with?"  
"Yes. I'm looking for another secretary. Her shift was earlier today, I think? Young woman?"

"Oh, Jan?" the young man said, his brow furrowed. "She's… she's just left. Fled, or something. She'd moved here recently, and when I came in for my shift she was packing the stuff from her desk and saying goodbye. I got the sense that she wasn't returning."

Dean swore. "Did she say where she was going?"

"No, she left over an hour ago. Took a taxi to the airport, I think. Very mysterious."

She'd taken an airplane. Dean closed his eyes hopelessly. There was no way he could catch up to her in time. Instead, he'd have to bring Sam to the hospital and hope for the best.

"Thanks," Dean said briefly, and drove back to the motel.

Sam was lying in the bed, his skin pale and lacking any flush of color.

"Dean?" he said softly when Dean came in.

"Yeah, I'm here. We're going to the hospital."

"What?" Sam's eyes fluttered open. "No… no hospital. I'll be fine."

"Come on, man, let's go."

"No, Dean-" Sam's eyes were wide now, his pupils dilated. He sat up, his torso rocking slightly from the apparent dizziness. Dean took the chance to grab his wrist and feel for his pulse. Too quick.

"Dean… it's really cold."

"I know," Dean said, shrugging his jacket off to put it around Sam's shoulders. "You're in shock, dude. Not good. We need to get you-"

"No, no hospital," Sam repeated, shaking his head rapidly. His eyes darted from Dean to the door, his face turning a sickly pallor. "Dean, everything's spinning."

Dean felt his forehead again, and cursed to find that it was cold and slicked with sweat. Sam subconsciously leaned into his touch. That wasn't a good sign; Normal Sam wouldn't even let him touch his forehead.

"Hey, it's going to be okay," Dean said gently, instinct now kicking in. His father had taught him basic first aid, and one of the first rules when dealing with shock - even if it was a weird, witchcraft version of shock caused by a hex bag - was to make sure that the person was calm. "Sam, look at me. You're okay." His little brother was breathing rapidly and shallowly. "Breathe in, breathe out. Slower. Take it easy."

Sam shuddered, his eyes closing. His breaths shortened.

"Sam, you need to breathe. Come on, you know how to breathe." Dean laughed shakily despite the situation. "I don't have to remind you how to breathe properly, do I?"

Sam made eye contact with Dean briefly before he stared blankly up, no longer shivering.

"Hey! Sam, come on, we're going to the hospital."  
There was no response.

"Sammy!" Dean pleaded, holding his brother's cold, clammy hand. "Sammy, I'm here - please, no-"  
The sound of fluttering wings interrupted the heavy air of the motel room. Dean jumped, glancing backward. "Cas!"

"Hello, Dean. I heard you mention my name. I apologize for my lack of punctuality, but your tone did not seem to be urgent."

" _I'm Agent… Castiel."_ He'd mentioned Cas in the morgue.

Dean stood up quickly, not bothering to wipe the moisture from his eyes. "Save him, Cas, he's dying - there was a witch, and a hex bag - he's in shock, Cas, please-"

The angel eyed Sam. "He appears to be in grave danger," he confirmed, and reached out with two fingers to Sam's forehead. A warm glow encompassed the room.

Sam gasped suddenly and flew upward. "Cas?" he asked, blinking. "What are you doing here?"

"Answering Dean," Cas said. He nodded to them. "Stay in touch." With another fluttering of wings, he was gone.

"You alright?" Dean asked hesitantly. "You're warm enough? Breathing fine?"  
"I think so," Sam said, running a hand through his hair. "What happened to the witch?"  
"Lost her," Dean growled. "I swear, if she ever comes across us again I'll stab her so many times that she'll look like a pincushion."

"I don't think that's necessary, Dean," Sam said, but he smiled at his brother's unwavering protective nature nevertheless.

 _That's all. A bit of Cas, a bit of witchcraft.  
Reviews, favorites, and follows all would really make me smile, and I would greatly appreciate all of the support! :)_


	3. Guilt

_Happy holidays everyone!  
This chapter is dedicated to TotallyChic, who requested "Can you have Dean be the one that almost kills Sam and feels guilty afterwards?" Yes! I love guilty!Dean (I'm so cruel haha). _

_This is set at Christmas, so I guess you could call this a Christmas special._

 _Again, I'm bad with the timeline since I'm new to the fandom, but this is set in season 7._

"Merry Christmas, Sam," floated Dean's voice from above Sam when he woke up. Groggily, he sat up, giving his brother a strange look.

"Why are you up before me?" he asked, glancing at the clock - it was 6:30 in the morning.

"You know me, Sammy, I like to enjoy every minute of Christmas," Dean said, tossing Sam a small wrapped box. "Here."  
"Right," Sam said, getting out of bed and going to his duffel bag. He pulled out a small gift as well, wrapped in a shiny green foil. He paused to contemplate the gifts, a small smile on his face. "Wow. We both wrapped with actual wrapping paper this year. Is that a first?"  
Dean shrugged. "It's the last Christmas as we know it before the Leviathans take over the world. What do you expect?"

Sam could feel his smile sliding off of his face, but ignored the sudden realization by thrusting his gift to Dean.

"You open first," he said, leaning back onto his bed. Sudden movement behind him made him jump, and he twisted around rapidly to find himself face to face with Lucifer.

"Nah, Sam, _you_ open first," Lucifer said, gesticulating at him.

Sam turned back around slowly, feeling the devil's breath on his neck, and made eye contact with Dean, who raised his eyebrows.

"You seeing him?" Dean asked quietly.

Sam sighed. "Yeah. He's behind me."

"Tell him to take a hike," Dean said bluntly. "Or I'll shoot at him. No way are you hallucinating on Christmas."

"It won't work, Dean," Sam said defeatedly, ignoring the taunting looks Lucifer was giving him. "He's not about to just _leave_."

"But… Sam, he's not actually _here_ ," Dean responded, frowning.

"I know that," Sam snorted. "You think I haven't tried telling myself that repeatedly?" He flinched against his will as Lucifer lunged at him suddenly, cackling at his reaction.

Dean stood up suddenly, putting down the unopened gift sharply, and took out a beer.

"Really, Dean? Beer on Christmas morning?" Sam asked, pursing his lips.

"Hey. There are monsters taking over the world, and my little brother is hallucinating the devil. I think I'm entitled," Dean said in response, taking a large sip.

"Sam, do you think I'm entitled to use your knife?" Lucifer asked meekly, holding Sam's knife up. Sam flicked his eyes briefly over to the knife before bringing himself back to Dean.

"Open your gift," Dean prompted, leaning back to sip his beer again. "Go on."

Sam gingerly took the gift that his brother had carefully wrapped and untied the ribbon - Dean really had gone all out this year - to find a book on the fall of Rome.

"Saw it in the haunted bookstore that we took care a couple weeks ago," Dean said, shrugging. "It seemed nerdy, so I thought it'd be perfect."  
"Thanks, Dean," Sam said, genuinely taken aback. "Open yours."

Dean obliged, and tore the wrapping. "Hey! A new knife!" he said, looking pleased. "Thanks, Sam!" He twirled it in his fingers.

"It's infused with silver and iron," Sam explained. "Should work on a lot of our hunts."

"Silver and iron? Do you think it would work on you?" Lucifer asked, now holding Dean's new knife in his hand tightly. With one look at his brother, Sam could see the knife on the other side of the room, but it didn't make the version held in the devil's hands any less real. "We could always try." He brought the tip of the knife down Sam's arm, drawing blood - hot, crimson blood that Sam knew wasn't real, but it didn't make the sting any less real. He clutched his arm, willing himself not to gasp, and focused on his brother.

"What's he doing now?" Dean demanded.

"Nothing," Sam said automatically. "I'm fine, Dean." He had no desire to be pitied at the moment and though his brother meant well, he detested Dean's expression that clearly read that he thought Sam was vulnerable and helpless.

"No, you're sure as hell not fine, Sam. You're hallucinating! On Christmas!" There was fury in Dean's eyes, but more than usual. Sam couldn't help but feel annoyed by the sudden surge of protectiveness his brother was exhibiting.

Dean pointed vaguely behind Sam. "Where is he now?"  
"Uh…" Sam said, hesitating. He pointed to his direct left, where Lucifer was now sharpening his knife and wiping Sam's blood off of it. "Right there. Sitting on the edge of the bed."

Dean poised his new knife above his head, reading to whip it at where Lucifer was sitting in Sam's hallucination.

It was as though in slow motion. Sam glanced from his brother, who was exhaling while aiming, and to Lucifer, who snapped his fingers. Flames erupted on the entire right side of his bed, behind him, and in front of him, leaving only the space to his left safe from the fire. Pure instinct kicked in as he felt the white-hot orange lights dance across his skin, inflicting an agonizing burn as they did so. He yelped, diving to the left, realizing that his instinctual reaction was a vast mistake as he saw the knife flying towards him swiftly - Dean had released it.

 _Snick._

Sam looked down in shock. The flames were extinguished suddenly, and Lucifer winked at Sam before vanishing. The hilt of the knife was jutting out of the left side of his abdomen.

Dean had really thrown that knife hard, he couldn't help but think, and there was a sudden dead silence in the room before Dean leapt off of the bed and ran to his side.

"Sammy?! Oh, God, no, I'm so sorry!"

Sam could hear Dean letting out a long string of profuse apologies, but he couldn't take his eyes off of the knife stuck in his body.

"-mean to, Sam, this is all my fault, I can't believe I… I was just so angry, and I thought throwing a knife at him would make him go away, maybe, and… and…"

Sam leaned into Dean, aware suddenly that he didn't have the energy to pull away from his older brother's touch. There was pain in his side… immense pain… but more blinding was the fogging in his head that was obscuring Dean's words slightly. Cold tingled over his body and his head spun.

"Sam, I'm calling 911!" came Dean's voice, and his brother was suddenly gone from his side. Sam toppled forward, feeling with his hand for the hilt of the knife. He was so stupid. The fire hadn't been real, yet he'd acted like it was… jumping straight into the path of an oncoming knife that he _knew_ was coming…

"Sam!" Dean was gripping his face, cupping the sides of his head in his hands. "God, no, please, Sammy, hang in there!"

Sam tried to tell him it wasn't that bad of a wound but then words wouldn't come. He looked down again and saw that a dark red pool of blood had collected in his knees where he was kneeling. Oh. Maybe it was worse than he thought. Dean was practically hugging him, keeping a tight hold and babbling still.

"Sam, the ambulance is coming, see? Hear the sirens? It's coming!" There were tears in his brother's eyes.

"Not your fault," Sam managed to cough out. "I'm… fine, Dean."  
"Hey - stay awake!" There was a prodding to Sam's face and he opened his eyes again.

"Dean?"  
"Yeah, I'm here, Sammy."  
"It's not your fault," Sam repeated, bent on getting the message through to Dean. "The hallucination… I reacted to it, it made me move into the way… not your fault."

There was no response, and Sam closed his eyes, drifting into the warm comfort of his brother's arms.

* * *

 _Beep._

 _Beep._

 _Beep._

 _Beep._

There was some kind of loud beeping above Sam. It was rather irritating. His bed was surprisingly soft considering the motel they were staying at. He opened his eyes with difficulty, blinking away the crust in the corners of his eyes.

"Dean?" he muttered, seeking out his brother's form.  
"Sam?" was the immediate response. "How are you feeling?"

"Like…" Sam considered the question. "Like I'm in the hospital because I… got hurt on a hunt or something."

"Close. I… I threw a knife at you." Dean's voice was shaky. "God, Sam, I'm so sorry. I swear I didn't mean to."

"My fault. Lucifer's fault," Sam managed, remembering suddenly what had happened. "Not… yours." He could feel Dean's hand on his shoulder.

"H-has your hand… been there the whole time?" he asked, the room spinning slightly. Drugs, probably, a voice said in the back of his mind.

"Um," Dean stalled, moving his hand quickly.

"Thanks, Dean."

"For what?"  
"For… the book," Sam muttered, thinking of the book his brother gave him, and he fell back asleep with the comfort of knowing his older brother was there with him.

 _Thanks for reading, and thank you again to TotallyChic for the prompt!_

 _Reviews, favorites, and follows are all greatly appreciated and would really make my day :)_

 _Happy holidays!_


	4. Stomach Flu

_Hello everyone!  
I wanted to remind you all that I am really grateful for prompts, so if there's a hurt Sam chapter you want me to write, just put it in a review! Thanks so much!  
This prompt comes from CarryOnWaywardSon5, who requested "Stomach flu". Thanks for the prompt! :)_

 _This is set in season two (I thought a younger Sam, but not pre-series, would be most suitable)._

 _Enjoy this lighthearted brotherly fluff._

"Did you find a new hunt?" Dean asked he entered the dingy motel room they were crashing at for the night, somewhere in upstate New York. He'd just gotten back from the local diner with sandwiches for them to eat; Sam had stayed behind to research.

"Yeah, actually," Sam said, twisting the laptop towards Dean. "So, get this. Hikers have been disappearing out in this section of forest in Vermont. It's a really wild area - mountains, rivers, and not much civilization for miles around."  
"How do you know that they're not just lost? How is this our sort of thing?" Dean asked, taking the tin-foil wrapped sandwiches out of the bag.

"The hikers are vanishing every eighteen Mondays," Sam elaborated, taking the sandwich from Dean's outstretched hand and looking at it warily. "You better not have gotten me a meatball sub, or some sort of greasy-"

"Relax. It's some sort of spinach-mushroom health thing. Looked disgusting," Dean said, unwrapping his own tin foil to reveal a sandwich dripping with pulled pork.

"Thanks," Sam said, looking pleased, and took it out of its wrap. "So, I was thinking we could make it to Middlebury by early tomorrow morning, if we leave after breakfast. We can question the locals and check with the families then go into the woods by afternoon." He lifted his sandwich to take a bite before contemplating it. "I'm going to save this for later, actually, I'm not hungry yet." He set it back down and opened his laptop again.

"Wendigo, then?" Dean mused, throwing himself onto the bed and turning the television on.

"Looks like it, assuming it's not a random pagan god, or a-"

"Great. I could use a good wendigo campfire tomorrow," Dean interrupted. "Get some sleep. I don't want you to be cranky tomorrow."

"I don't get _cranky_ -"  
"Yeah, you do."

* * *

Sam woke up a bit past midnight. At first, he couldn't understand why he was so uncomfortable. Dean was softly snoring in the other bed, the curtains were drawn but a small crack in between them allowed a sliver of moonlight to illuminate the room, and the heater in the corner was blowing gently into the room.

Churning in the pit of his stomach suddenly made it clear to him why he'd woken up. The nausea was overwhelming and he sat up, shivering in the cold air of the motel room. A sudden surge of bile in his mouth made him stumble out of bed and into the bathroom. Vomit rose in his mouth and he made it to the toilet just in time, splattering the edges with a bit of mushroom-flavored regurgitation as his sandwich from earlier came back up. Once he was finished, Sam laid back against the tile. His hands were shaking slightly and the core of his body felt cold. Finally he gained the energy to heave himself to his feet and brush his teeth to scrub the pungent taste out of his mouth.

Dean was still sleeping; he'd slept through Sam's vomiting. Sam had only crept back into bed for another ten minutes before his stomach flipped again and he returned to the bathroom quickly.

Stupid stomach flu. Hopefully, Dean wouldn't notice, and they could continue the hunt as planned. Sam had no intentions of letting a sickness prohibit him from joining his brother on a hunt. He leaned against the wall of the bathroom and ignored the goosebumps that were creeping up his arms, because he didn't dare leave the side of the toilet again in case the vomit came back up.

Sam wasn't sure what time he had fallen asleep on the bathroom floor, but the next thing he knew, Dean's voice was above him. Quickly, he jumped to his feet, ignoring the lightheadedness that spun his vision as he did so.

"What are you doing?" Dean's voice was both insistent and annoyed. "What, did you fall asleep after taking a piss?"  
Well, at least the smell of the puke had faded, because Dean clearly had no idea. Sam swallowed the nausea that was threatening to push its way upward, and moved past Dean.

"Yeah. Sorry."

Dean shrugged, didn't question Sam's sleeping on the bathroom floor, and closed the door. It was astounding, really, how easily that you could trick him if he was tired. Sam fell onto his bed, closing his eyes against the pounding headache that was splitting his sternum. The cold that he had felt inside when he'd first finished regurgitating had returned, and he heaved himself upward to put on his sweatshirt.

"Sammy! Pack our stuff, and let's roll on out of here once I'm out of the shower!" came Dean's voice from the bathroom.

Sam obliged and began to throw their few possessions and clothing into their bags, fishing Dean's keys out from the depths of his crumpled jeans on the floor and setting them on the table next to the motel room door.

Steam wafted into the room when Dean emerged from the shower, already dressed. "Hey. Are you sure you're okay? Why were you on the bathroom floor?"

Sam paused, contemplating his answer. Dean had apparently woken up in the shower, and there was no trying to trick him now. Instead, he neglected to give a sufficient answer, desperate to not have to miss out on the hunt.

"I went into the bathroom in the middle of the night, and I guess I fell asleep in there," he said as casually as possible. His brother narrowed his eyes at him, obviously evaluating his honesty, but eventually just exhaled.

"Alright, whatever. Let's go get breakfast and then we can make our way to Cow Land."

* * *

Sam despised the stomach flu. The weakness, the nausea, the chills, the lethargy - all of it was horrible, especially knowing that he'd have to shove it all away on the hunt or else he'd risk getting himself, or worse, Dean, hurt.

"What'll you be getting?" the waitress asked Dean, standing slightly slouched.

Dean straightened his menu and turned to smile at the waitress. "I'll get scrambled eggs, toast, and…" He paused. "Bacon."

"How about you?" the waitress asked, turning to Sam.

The thought of food was not an option - even the smell of the small diner they were eating breakfast at was nauseating.

"I'm fine for now, thanks. Just a water," Sam said as nonchalantly as possible, smiling. Dean frowned.

"What's up?" he asked, taking a sip of his coffee. He was looking at Sam with a slightly stern, knowing look and Sam knew that it was over now, Dean could most likely see through his façade.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, picking at his sleeve and avoiding direct eye contact. A chill ran up his spine and he involuntarily shivered.

"Dude. I'm not stupid."

"That's news to me," Sam responded, not in the mood to cooperate.

"You sick?" Dean asked, setting his coffee down. "Actually, that's not even a question. You're sick. You're really bad at hiding it, Sammy. Not eating? Bundled in about four layers of clothing? You on the bathroom floor?"

"It's not too bad," Sam relented. "I'm fine, really. We can still do the hunt-"

"Nope. No way. You know what Dad always said," Dean said, wagging a finger. "We don't do hunts if we're not up to par. If you're off your game, that's a chance that we're not going to risk."  
"Dean, I can still hunt!" Sam protested, trying to stop the shivers that were wracking his body. "I'll rest on the way there!" He was about to say more when the smell of sausage suddenly drifted over to their table, and the bile came up again. He sprinted to the bathroom, hardly making it to the toilet in time before the last of the food he'd eaten yesterday came up.

"Sam? You alright?" Dean had followed him. Sam internally groaned; he didn't like having his older brother see him as anything less than strong. He hadn't had time to lock the stall behind him and could feel Dean standing closely.

"Fine," Sam said after a moment, wiping his mouth and cringing at the bitter taste. "I'm fine."

He pushed past Dean to go rinse his mouth in the sink. He gripped the edge of the sink, aware that goosebumps were crawling up his arms very visibly.

"Let's go get a motel," Dean said, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, Sam. The hunt can wait."

Sam nodded silently, and reluctantly followed him back to the Impala, after Dean got a box for his breakfast that he hadn't eaten yet.

"Don't you dare puke on the upholstery," Dean warned, but his movements with the car were somehow softer than usual as he pulled out of the parking lot to find a new motel.

* * *

"Here," Dean said once they had checked into a motel and Sam had curled up onto the bed. "Water."

Sam shook his head vehemently. "I'm really not hungry," he said, refusing to accept the water, knowing perfectly well that it would be back up within the hour.

"Yeah, but you're probably dehydrated." Dean's hand didn't waver and finally Sam took the glass, setting it next to him. Under Dean's expectant gaze he finally took a small sip to appease him before leaning back again.

"Dean, you don't have to just sit there. It's creepy."

"Don't kill me, Sam," Dean said, leaning forward and quickly placed the back of his hand on Sam's forehead. Sam pulled back quickly, slapping Dean's hand away.

"Dude! What are you doing?!"

Dean threw his hands in the air. "You're sweaty! And shaking! I just thought I'd check for a fever-"

"I don't need to be checked for a fever!"

"Try telling that to your burning forehead, bitch," Dean said, stomping over to his bag. "I'm going to get medicine. You think you'll be okay while I'm gone?"

"No, I'm going to pass out and die, jerk," Sam said sarcastically. "Yes, Dean, I'll be okay."

Once Dean had left and the roar of the Impala had faded, Sam surfed the channels, and finally landed on a documentary on the decline of Rome. The ache over his whole body only progressed and despite his will to not feel weak, he was extremely glad that Dean would be returning with medication.

"Here," Dean said fifteen minutes later when he returned. "Pills."

Sam blinked at his brother, processing the situation rather slowly, and took a pill out. "Thanks," he said gratefully, popping one into his mouth. Dean reclined onto his own bed and tossed Sam a bag of crackers. "Here. Eat something."

Sam took it doubtfully and bit into a cracker, then had eight more. "When is Bobby getting here?"  
"He said the earliest he can make it is tomorrow morning."

Sam struggled to sit up. "Dean, other people will die! We need to do the hunt-" He was abruptly stopped by his stomach rejecting the crackers, and dizzily stumbled out of bed to the bathroom to heave up the measly amount of food.

"Last I checked, puke doesn't kill monsters," Dean said from behind him. "Better out than in, Sammy." He placed his hand on Sam's back gently; it wasn't something he tended to do and despite the situation Sam was taken aback, but didn't argue.

"You don't have to help me," Sam said, shakily getting to his feet and rinsing his mouth again.

"No," Dean agreed. "I want to. You're my little brother."

Sam didn't have an answer, and allowed Dean to steer him back to his bed; it seemed to appeal to his mother-henning.

"Thanks," Sam said quietly.

"That's what I do, Sammy," Dean responded, flopping down onto the bed next to him and popping open a beer.

 _Aww, brotherly scenes. Wow, I was slow in getting this out, so I'd like to formally apologize to CarryOnWaywardSon5. Things just… happened, like homework, track, Christmas, etc. I'll get better._

 _Don't forget, everyone, that I strongly encourage prompts! If you have any sort of hurt!Sam chapter, let me know in a review! Thanks!_


	5. Bite

_Hello, everyone, and goodbye, hiatus. I now have a study hall at school so I think I'll be able to write more frequently._

 _I forgot to say this earlier, so, disclaimer: The Winchesters do not belong to me. All rights go to Kripke. I'm just borrowing them._

 _This chapter is for huge sg1 fan, who gave me the prompt:_

 _Can you do one set in season 12 where Eileen made it to the bunker to stay with Sam and Dean and Sam gets some kind of fever/infection from an injury from the latest hunt and Dean and Eileen work together to take care of him. Bonus points if Dean says something to Eileen about how good he thinks she is for Sam._

 _Yes! I really like Eileen, and I'm excited to write her :) I want to warn you all that this chapter is_ _a bit_ _extremely corny - I couldn't really help it._

"Pizza's here," Dean announced, entering the bunker. He slid the box onto the kitchen table where Sam and Eileen Leahy were seated, enjoying the ambience of the brisk, rainy night.

Eileen had been staying with Sam and Dean for the past few days since she'd been in the area, and accompanied them on their last two hunts - the most recent of which they had returned from a mere hour ago. It had been a simple chupacabra hunt a few towns over, and though it wasn't necessary for all three of them to have gone, it had gotten them out of the bunker.

Sam took out paper towels to set their slices on (he and Dean had no inclination to do the dishes afterward) and cut one for Eileen first before proceeding to Dean's, then his own. Dean took a large bite; cheese stretched like a rubber band between his mouth and the pizza and then fell onto the table limply.

"Pizza's amazing," Dean said, hardly intelligible due to his mouth being full. "Want to know why?" He didn't wait for an answer. "It's pie. Pizza pie. Pie but with sauce, cheese, and meat."

Sam shook his head then turned to Eileen, amused. "Want to find a new hunt for tomorrow, or pop in a movie tonight?"

"Movie," Eileen said automatically, and they shifted from the kitchen to the Men of Letters' living room. Dean grabbed _The Sixth Sense_ from the Impala - one of the two movies that they actually owned - and soon they were on the couch with popcorn and a film playing.

"I remember the first time I watched this, it was funny to me," Dean said when the credits began to roll at the end. "I mean, most people watch this and get freaked out, but go to bed reassuring themselves that it's just a movie."

"Then there are people like us who go out looking for this sort of thing," Eileen said, looking at Dean, then leaning over to turn the lamp on. "How's your arm, Sam?"

"Hm? I haven't checked, actually," Sam said, and peeled back his bandage. The chupacabra had been an admittedly easy hunt, yet somehow he'd let his guard down and gotten a nasty bite that took up nearly three inches on his arm. The wound was red, swollen, and yellow on the edges. Luckily, it was shallow, but it still hurt quite a bit.

"I'll put more ointment on it before I go to bed," he said, shrugging it off. "We've had worse."

"I'm going to turn in," Dean said, yawning. "G'night."

"Goodnight," Eileen responded, and paused. "I forgot to mention - I wanted to let you know that I'll be heading out early tomorrow morning. I'm meeting a friend of mine for her birthday, and she's over in Colorado."

"Oh, we'll miss you," Sam said, genuinely a bit disappointed at losing the presence of Eileen that had been around for the past week. "What time are you leaving?"  
"Probably before eight," Eileen replied.

"We can head out for breakfast before you go," Sam suggested. "There's a small diner about five minutes from here."

"That would be nice," Eileen said, smiling.

* * *

"Dude. Wake up."

Sam blinked slowly, focusing on Dean, who was standing in his doorway, peering into the room. "Dean?" he asked groggily. "What are you doing?"

"Waking you up," was his brother's response. "It's seven. We're leaving to go out for breakfast before Eileen has to roll on out of here."

Sam sat up quickly, remembering their conversation from the night before. "Right," he said, climbing out of bed and shivering in the morning air. "I'll be right out."

Dean slapped the wall twice, turned on the light for Sam, and left while closing the door behind him.

Sam hadn't intended on sleeping in; usually he woke up at six on his own, so he hadn't set an alarm, but apparently he'd slept through his internal sleep cycle this morning.

He peeled back his bandage to inspect the wound, and was taken aback by the pungent smell that came up with it. It was wet with pus and a bit green now with angry red streaks surrounding it; clearly, it wasn't healing properly. The bleeding had stopped before he had gone to bed, but must have reopened during the night because the bandage was wet with blood. Hopefully, it was done now, or else he'd have to put stitches in, and that wasn't something he particularly felt like doing. He resolved to run to the pharmacy for better ointment after Eileen left, and until then he'd be fine.

He put on a warmer flannel and jeans, then left his room. He was still shivering slightly, and though it didn't seem to be too cold in the bunker, the core of his body felt chilly. His arm was flaring in sharp pain as he put his jacket on, but he ignored it.

"How'd you sleep?" he asked Eileen.

"Good," she said, looking a bit sad. "I'll miss you guys. Thank you so much for letting me stay here."

"You're welcome to stay any time," Sam said, hoping that his smile didn't come across as fake because he was wincing slightly as his arm was jostled by his jacket.

They climbed into the Impala. Sam took the backseat to let Eileen sit in the front, and Dean started the engine, pulling out of the Men of Letters' garage a bit recklessly.

Sam tightened his coat around himself, feeling as though he was incapable of warming up. Against his will his eyelids were struggling to stay open. He'd gotten enough sleep - more than enough, in fact - yet drowsiness was threatening to take over once Dean had gotten the Impala onto a smoother stretch of road and the familiar hum of the motor began a steady rhythm.

He hadn't even realized he was falling asleep until his head jerked suddenly.

"...and it would be nice to eat a meal that's not from a diner," Dean was saying to Eileen.

"The bunker is definitely large enough," Eileen said to him. "But I don't suppose many people would come…"  
"Yeah, hunters aren't known for having large families," Dean said, and began to count on his fingers. "You, Sam, me, Cas, Jody, Claire, uh… give me a moment." There was a pause. "Shit. Sam, who else doesn't want to kill us?"

Sam jumped, having started to drift again with the lull of their voices. "Hm? Oh. Most people want to kill us, I guess," he said, rubbing his eyes. The cold that had been inside him previously had been replaced with burning warmth, and he quickly pulled off his jacket in the suffocating heat only to jar his arm and clutch it in pain.

"You alright back there?" Dean asked, watching Sam wrestle with himself in the rearview mirror.

"Fine," Sam said quickly, his words a bit clipped. He unrolled the window slightly and reveled in the cool air that blew across his face.

Dean eased the Impala into the parking lot of the small breakfast diner and parked. Sam was anxious to get out of the car; he felt like he was on fire. He stepped out of the car quickly; perhaps a bit too quickly, because his vision tunneled as soon as he was upright. Sam waited for it to lessen, but instead of clearing, it remained dark, and then he was slightly disconcerted to feel the sensation of swaying and falling.

"Sam, you okay?" came Dean's worried voice from above him, and Sam opened his eyes to find himself lying in an uncomfortable position on the sidewalk. Judging from Dean's hasty stance next to him, he'd only blacked out for a mere five seconds, but it was long enough for him to fall onto the ground. Eileen was also there, looking concerned, and the hotness on his face was no longer from the strange heat wave but from his embarrassment.

"I'm fine! You can stop hovering, Dean," Sam grumbled. "I just stood up too quickly."

"Yeah, because that's perfectly normal and you do it all the time," Dean snorted. "Show me your arm. I'm not an idiot."

"My arm's alright!" Sam protested. "Look, let's just go get breakfast, and we can look at it later!" He was in no mood to have Dean worry over his infected wound, not when Eileen was leaving within the hour and there was no telling when the next time they'd see her would be.

"Then show it to me, if it's fine," Dean said, predictably stubborn. Sam sighed and pulled the bandage back to reveal the green, pussy, bloody mess on his arm. A foul scent came up with it.

"Damn, that's a good bite wound," Dean muttered. "We need to get that cleaned up."

Eileen was standing there as well; not quite as close as Dean, but near. "I have an antibiotic solution that you can flush it out with," she offered.

"That would be great. Thanks, Eileen," Sam said, gritting his teeth while he sat up and the world tilted under him again.

"You're burning up," Dean said as he steadied Sam. "No wonder you're dizzy."

"I'm not dizzy, I'm _fine_ ," Sam said, refraining from snapping too much, but his mortification at having collapsed on the ground as though he were weak was coming through his tone, and he knew it.

"Let's go back to the bunker and have breakfast," Eileen said, gripping Sam's shoulder after he stood. "That wound should be cleaned better."

Sam relented and followed them back into the car.

* * *

"No way. You're sitting down, and don't move your arm," Dean said when Sam attempted to rummage in the closet for their first aid kit upon arrival at the bunker.

"It's bleeding! I'm just getting new bandages, and I think I'm capable of doing that-"

"I can get them," Eileen interrupted, having watching their lips to see what they were saying. She grinned at Sam's indignance before taking over and pulling out the bandages.

"Thanks," Dean called from the hall. "I'll get the ointment. Where'd you leave it last night, Sam?"

"On the dresser. Look, you guys don't have to do this for me. I can do it myself-"  
"Arm," Eileen told him, ignoring his aversion to their concern. "Let me help." She gently flushed it out with the antibiotic solution over the sink, her hands nimble and soft.

"Does it hurt?" she asked, rinsing it carefully.

"I've had much worse," Sam confirmed, raising his gaze to meet hers. "Thanks so much, Eileen." He attempted to use sign language with his other arm to say _thank you_ as he spoke, and the effort made Eileen smile at him.

Dean returned with the ointment and Eileen applied it to the bite wound before gingerly wrapping it in gauze. "There. That'll help with the infection," she said.

"Pop this," Dean added, handing Sam a pill. "It'll help with the fever."

"You two are like mother hens," Sam grumbled, taking the pill nevertheless. "I'll be right back. I'm going to go change my shirt since this one stinks like the wound and antibiotic solution." He left the kitchen, running his hand through his hair.

Dean watched him retreat.  
"We'll miss you a lot," he said. "I know we said that already, but I want you to know that it's been a really nice change having you around."

"Next time I'm in the area, I'll definitely drop by," Eileen promised.

"You better," Dean told her, and his voice dropped an octave. "I think Sam enjoys having you around, too."

Eileen blushed slightly, looking away. "He does?"

"He's different, somehow. Happier. Lighter. Less melancholic, like he usually is." Dean smirked. "I think that you two would be great together."

The red in Eileen's cheeks was beginning to match the color red that Sam's bite had been streaked with.

"You should go out to dinner together," Dean continued bluntly, ignoring her timidity. "I know my little brother pretty well, and I think he likes you."

"Maybe I will next time I stop by," Eileen said, the smile returning to her face and stretching wide. "That would be nice."

Sam returned then, wearing a different flannel.

"I probably have to get going," Eileen said after a moment of silence.

"You don't want to stay for breakfast?" Sam said, despondency crossing his face. "I could fix you some scrambled eggs, or toast, or something - pancakes, if you want."

His expression was so hopeful that Dean had to fight the urge to laugh.

"Alright," Eileen said, looking rather pleased. "I can help, if you want."

"Yeah. Yeah, alright," Sam said, beaming, and Dean quietly left the room to give them space.

Maybe, in the midst of the wars and deaths they had endured, there were people that could brighten the darkness, and Dean welcomed any person that could make his brother smile and laugh - something that Sam did so sparingly in the past few years.

 _Why, oh why, am I so corny? Oh well, hopefully a chapter loaded with fluff was alright._

 _Thanks again to huge sg1 fan for the prompt!_


	6. Car Crash

_Wow! Already 19 reviews! Thank you all so much! :)  
Thanks to ItzAGoodThing who gave me the prompt for this chapter: _

_How about a car accident during an argument? Dean is driving. Sometime during the later seasons._

 _I love love love this prompt, thank you so much! This will be set in season 12._

 _Side note: I'm not a doctor, so forgive me for any factual errors._

"All I'm asking is for you to back off a bit," Sam said, his voice steeled. "I mean, the past _seven_ hunts, you've thrust yourself in front of me at the last moment just so _you_ can get the kill!"

"Yeah, because if I don't, then you might screw it up or something-"

"No, I wouldn't! I've been doing this just as long as you, and I'm perfectly capable of shooting a gun and killing monsters! You're forgetting that I'm just as good a hunter as you, and it pisses me off!"

"Oh, I bet," Dean said, angry laughter creeping into his voice. "How about from now on, we start keeping track of how many kills you get and how many I get? Because my number will be higher - you can't shoot nearly as accurately, not to mention you always hesitate before killing!" He raised his finger in the air as he spoke, pointing it at Sam.

Sam didn't retort immediately, and Dean could almost hear the gears in his head debating whether or not to reply with a biting response.

"Look. I get that you want to be the heroic older brother, and you're afraid that I'm going to get stabbed or bitten or something - so you think that jumping in front of me to take the kill is going to solve all of the problems - but it's only going to make things worse, because then I might hurt _you_ accidentally."

"You think that's why?" Dean asked, mirth edging into his tone. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and gripped it tighter, not shifting his gaze from the road. "What, you think I'm trying to save you or something? Hell, my priority is always to gank the monster first. It's not _heroics_ , no matter how much your stupid imagination would like to believe that."

"Come on, Dean, cut the irrational denial! I'm trying to reason with you, and it would help if you'd stop _snapping_ back at me," Sam began, but Dean interrupted.

"Oh, yeah, calling me irrational is going to make me want to speak kinder to you. What, do you need me to use a softer voice? Are my words too scary?"  
Sam exhaled sharply. "I'm not calling you irrational! I'm trying to get you to see that I don't need you to take every kill - you can _trust_ me, you know? Next hunt, when I'm lined up to get the kill, just don't steal it, because I'm not going to let you down or something-"

"How do I know that?" Dean demanded. "Because you've let me down many times, Sam, and guess what? I trust myself on a hunt more than you." It was a low blow and he knew it, but anger was keeping him from feeling too guilty.

Sam didn't get offended by the comment, though. It only seemed to infuriate him more. "Like you've got a clean record, Dean, because I can recall plenty of times that you've-"

"What? Let _you_ down? I might have let you down when I was a damn demon, but how about we count the number of times I lost my trust in you?" The conversation had gone from petty to dangerously close to a full-blown fight, but Dean didn't care much. Instead, he continued on his roll. "Hm? Do you want to count, or do you want me to?"

Sam was quiet.

He turned slightly to see Sam's reaction, unsure whether his brother would throw a fist or start shouting - and at the moment, he wanted the former. Instead, he was surprised to see Sam staring wildly past him.

"Dean! Look out!"

Two seconds of time seemed to span ten minutes as it happened. A car was careening over the yellow lines of the road, its headlights shining like beacons into the Impala. Dean jerked the wheel to the right, narrowly avoiding the swerving car, but instead they skidded off the side of the road. The Impala tumbled forward in a blur of metal crashing and glass shattering, and everything went black as the world tipped upside down.

* * *

"Sir? Sir!"

Dean woke up to light. Lights everywhere. There was blue flickering in the corner of his eye. Red blaring ahead of him, through the window - no, the shattered window - of the Impala. There was a blinding yellow light directly in his eye; someone was standing above him, shining it at him.

"He's awake," a deep male voice said next to him. "Mara, check his oxygen. Sir, can you hear me?"

Dean blinked at the man standing above him. He had clipped dark hair with streaks of gray, and a clean-shaven face. "What?"  
"Can you tell me your name?" the man asked clearly.

"Dean… Winchester," Dean said, the words feeling like a gag in his mouth. He twisted, attempting to see if Sam was alright and awake next to him, but only saw that the seat was empty. "Where's my brother?"

"We need to move you. Do you have any pain in your neck or back?"

Dean shifted slightly in his seat again, testing out his muscles. "I'm fine!" he insisted, lucidity returning. "Sam - my brother - he's with me, I need to see him…" He pushed against the medic and tried to stand, and a flurry of people surrounded him.

"Please sit back down, we need to check your vitals-"  
"We're taking you to the hospital, sir, stay still."

A woman was gently taking his wrist to lead him to the ambulance, but Dean pulled away.

"I'm fine!" he repeated, scanning the area for his brother. His head was killing him, and one touch to the side of his temple told him that he was bleeding heavily, but it seemed to be cosmetic, so he continued on. "My brother - where is he?"  
The medic caught up with him, trying to guide him the other way. "Please, we need you to sit down - you're suffering from a severe concussion and you've bruised several ribs."

"I've had a lot worse, and let me make this simple - I don't give a damn," Dean snarled. "Tell me where my brother is, or…"

His voice trailed off as the group of people crowded ten feet in front of the Impala caught his eye. They were rushing about to and from the ambulance, shouting at one another, spitting out statistics, and handing each other medical tools while propping open a stretcher.

"Hey!" Dean shouted, fumbling his way through. "Let me through!"

He pushed his way through the throng of medics, who seemed to notice him but didn't make any move to stop him.

Sam was in the center. His head was covered in blood, as though he'd gone swimming in a pool of blood, and cuts decorated his face like sprinkles on a cake. His leg was bent at an impossible angle, and a white piece of bone was sticking out of his foot. A shard of metal glass protruded from his chest, blood running down from it almost gracefully.

"Sammy," Dean breathed, crouching next to him. Someone was pulling him back and he slapped them away. "Get off me! He's my brother!"

"We need to tend to him," a voice in his ear said gently, and more hands were beginning to pull him away.

"No! Stop!" Dean growled, wrenching himself rather painfully out of their grasp. "He's my damn brother and there's no way in Hell that I'm leaving him."

Sam hadn't stirred once. His hair was haloed around his head, and his arms were splayed at his sides. Dean softly pressed his hand against his brother's wrist, his breath bated.

It was hardly there. Faint and erratic, but barely there.

"You need to move, sir." The voice was louder this time and more persistent. Dean ignored it and instead took off his flannel, pressing it against the wound on Sam's head.

"You're injured, and we need to give you medical attention."

Dean gripped Sam's left hand in his own, tightly squeezing the scar on his brother's hand, as though it was a lifeline. Sam was pulled onto the stretcher and Dean followed like a dog, speaking in a low voice words of reassurance.

Oh, God. What was the last thing he'd said to Sam?

 _I might have let you down when I was a damn demon, but how about we count the number of times I lost my trust in you?_

The medics were reaching for him again, and this time he let them, falling to his knees in the mud and watching emptily as Sam was wheeled into the ambulance, unconscious and bleeding.

* * *

It was midnight.

The clock in the corner ticked like a heartbeat.

The moonlight slowly crept from the left of the room to the right of the room, gradually and silently making its arc.

The air tasted as sterile as it looked against the silver and white colors of the darkened hospital room.

Dean sat wide awake in a chair next to his brother, who was sleeping peacefully. He'd woken once since the crash. And to Dean's relief, his eggs weren't scrambled.

That didn't discount the physical trauma. Broken ribs, a concussion, and punctured lung were just the beginning of a long list of injuries that also included a broken leg, whiplash, and lacerations.

"Dean."

Dean's head whirled around quicker than he would have liked and he ignored the dizziness, standing up to meet the voice in the doorway.

Castiel, in all of his trench coat glory, was standing still, half of his face shrouded in shadows and the other half illuminated by the moonlight.

"Cas?" Dean said, startled. "How'd you know that we were here?"

"Mary told me."

Oh. Dean had texted his mom, letting her know that they wouldn't be able to hunt for several weeks, due to Sam's injuries.

Cas moved closer to Dean, entering the room, his steps graceful and silent on the clean hospital floor.

"How'd you even get in? Visiting hours aren't until tomorrow."

Cas tilted his head. "I think you forget that I am capable of sneaking into places."

"Right. Yeah. So, is there a new lead on Kelly?"

The tilt in Cas's head did not waver. "No. I came to help you, Dean." He raised his hand and pressed two fingers to Dean's forehead; instantly, the headache, pressure on his chest, and fractured wrist were relieved of pain as the warmth spread quickly from his head to his toes.

"Thanks," Dean muttered, looking sideways past Cas, who looked at him intently.

"You could have called me and asked for my help. Why did you not?"

Dean hesitated. "I mean, I thought of it, yeah. But with so many other things going on, between the British Men of Letters and Lucifer's kid, I'm not about to call an angel in to heal us like some sort of damsel in distress."

"I do not mind. You're my friends." Cas did not wait for Dean to respond to his statement and instead moved over to where Sam was sleeping. His middle and index finger connected with Sam's forehead; for a moment, Dean thought that his brother would fly awake, but instead Sam just shifted in his sleep, exhaling peacefully.

"He is healed," Cas reported as though Dean didn't understand what had just happened.

"Thanks, Cas," Dean said, rubbing a hand over the back of his head. "I mean, you didn't have to do this. So thanks."

"It's never a problem," Cas replied, his tone flat. "I must go." With that, he left, exiting the room as silently as he had entered.

* * *

Dean woke up to the nurse walking into the room the next morning, and immediately panicked, his mind whirring into action to think of an explanation as to why Sam was suddenly healed.

Sam appeared to have just woken up and looked just as confused as the nurse, who was peeling back a bandage to find clear skin, and then checking his other wounds to find them all gone.

"What the hell…?" she said under her breath. "I've never seen anything like this."

Dean laughed nervously. "He's a fast healer. Lots of white blood cells… or something." He stumbled over his words slightly, finding that he was unable to come up with a decent reason for why Sam would be suddenly healed.

"I'm going to go get the doctor," the nurse said, a look of awe on her face, and she left the room.

Sam looked at Dean. "Cas?" he confirmed. Dean nodded, and grabbed his duffel bag that he'd brought into the hospital with him. "Let's get the hell out of here."

"I'm in a hospital gown," Sam muttered, plucking at the material. "Can't I change first-?"

"Change in the car," Dean started to say, when realization dawned on him. "Oh, shit. Baby!" He'd forgotten that the Impala had been towed to the local mechanic. "We can't leave. We don't have a ride."

Sam glowered at the ceiling. "As long as I don't make the local newspaper," he said, irritated. "Man Who Healed Overnight, or some crap like that."

"Would you rather be unconscious with an IV?" Dean asked, raising his eyebrows. "Besides, we've had worse publicity."

The doctor still hadn't come, and they sat in silence for a minute.

"I'm sorry," Dean said, looking down at his hands. "For what I said right before we crashed."

Sam didn't answer.

"Sam, I didn't mean it. You know I do trust you, right?"

"Um, I don't really remember what you said," Sam admitted after a moment. "I just remember feeling pissed at you. So I'm sorry for whatever I might've said to you."

Dean half-smiled, turning away.

Was it better to have Sam not know what had come out of his mouth? Or did it make the guilt only heavier?

 _Apparently, I have no idea on how to end a story. I'm really terrible at conclusions. So sorry about that._

 _Also, I don't intend on always using Cas's grace (because that would just be too easy) but it's so much fun to write._

 _Reviews are greatly appreciated and I also love receiving prompts for future one shots! As of now, I have prompt requests from Hyb108 and dgsangita, so I'll be getting those out as soon as possible :) Thanks for reading!_


	7. Anger

_Next one is from Hyb108:_

 _Sam is hurt and hiding it from Dean. Dean is angry at him for some reason, so despite knowing that Sam is hiding something, ignores it until Sam collapses._

 _Thanks for the prompt!  
This is set in season seven._

* * *

"I'm getting a pizza," Dean called as he jangled his keys in his hands. "Be back in twenty."

"Hey! Get me an iced tea!" Sam said loudly to Dean's retreating back, then his brother was gone.

They were in a small town in Nebraska that had signs of demonic activity. With no leads on the Leviathan, it seemed impractical to sit around and do nothing, so they'd taken the hunt just like old times.

Sam surfed the television, deciding on the history channel, and half-listened to the program on the Gilded Age while browsing his laptop for any other signs of the Leviathan.

A sudden knock on the door fifteen minutes later made him stand up warily, setting his laptop down. It wasn't Dean's knock; he'd heard his brother's knock enough times to know that it was light, quick, and usually in increments of three. This one was heavy-handed, and landed on the door four times.

Sam grabbed his gun and edged over to the door, and was still a good ten feet away when it swung open. Three bulky men stepped in and Sam poised his gun, knowing full well that it wouldn't work against them.

"Handy that the manager keeps doubles of the keys right by the desk," the man in the front said, walking in. The last man followed and closed the doors.

"Crowley send you?" Sam asked, stalling for time. It wouldn't be much longer before Dean returned - and Dean had Ruby's knife with him.

"No. You killed a friend of ours," the second man said, and his eyes blinked black. "Remember him?"  
Sam paused, genuinely trying to remember. The last demon they had ganked was more than a month ago. "Well…"  
"You think you can screw with us and get away with it?" the third said.

"Well, considering I've killed dozens of demons before and I've gotten away with it, yeah," Sam said, still holding his gun up even though it was useless. "But Crowley won't be very happy with you if you kill me. We're pretty useful to each other."

The demons exchanged a look. "We know," the first said darkly. "You're best friends or something now? That's okay. We won't kill you. Don't want the boss getting mad."

With that, he lunged forward, but Sam sidestepped him, sending a bullet into his forehead - it wouldn't kill him but it would slow him down.

Demon #2 and #3 came at him at the same time and he was only able to deflect one of their blows; the other came at his jaw and his hands leapt to his face protectively before he reacted and swung his left fist at the demon on his left while also slamming his knee into the groin of the demon on his right.

Unfortunately, with three on one, he was at a disadvantage. The demon behind him slammed something heavy into his skull and he toppled to the floor. He tried to unfold himself to stand back up, but they began to kick at him relentlessly, and all he could do was curl up and endure the slams to his ribs, his back, his knees, and his head.

 _Where is Dean?_

A boot struck the side of his head and made spots dance in front of his eyes.

 _Dean isn't coming._

There was a kick to his abdomen.

 _It's been nearly half an hour!_

The kicking stopped. One of the demons lifted Sam's head up by his hair, and he barely resisted crying out in pain as his back was bent in a way that it did not want to be bent.

"You hunters. Always so arrogant. You can kill and hurt us all you want, but we're not allowed to have any fun?" the demon asked, pulling out his knife and in a swift motion that couldn't have been more than two seconds, he plunged it into Sam's shoulder, then back out.

The knife made a _schnick_ sound and it emerged from Sam's skin, now red with blood, before the pain registered.

The kicking resumed, and this time they were aimed at his shoulder in particular.

 _It hurts._

 _Where are you Dean?!_

Then suddenly, they stopped.

"The older one's coming," one demon reported, and Sam opened his eyes, the world tilting and blurring, to see all three vanish. Quickly, he picked himself up from the floor, gasping as his ribs throbbed in protest. His shoulder was bleeding - not as heavily as he'd had wounds bleed in the past, but it wasn't something he could just slap a bandage over. He'd probably need stitches.

 _Ow - God, that hurts,_ was all he could think as he sat himself on the bed gingerly.

There was no doubt he'd have some colorful bruises by morning. He could hear Dean coming in and was preparing to ask his brother to go get some ice for him, and then stitch him up, but Dean's angry voice beat him to it.

"What the hell, Sam!" Dean yelled, storming into the motel room.

Sam blinked, taken aback, clutching his shoulder. "What?"

Dean threw the pizza box onto the table hard. "I asked you two days ago to change our credit cards."  
 _Shit._

Dean hadn't turned to look at Sam yet; he was preoccupied with snatching Sam's laptop off of the chair and opening it, sitting down much more violently than necessary at the small table.

"I'm so sorry, Dean, I know I said that I was going to - it slipped my mind," Sam began, but he knew his apology was futile as soon as Dean began to interrupt him.

"That's not all. You took Baby out yesterday, and you left her tank on empty. I ran out of gas on the way there, Sam. Luckily I was right near a gas station."

 _Shit!_

"Oh, man," Sam muttered. "Dean - I swear I didn't mean to, it just-"

"Slipped your mind, yeah," Dean snorted. He still hadn't looked up, since he was exchanging their credit cards and clearly cleaning up the situation. "Well, I ran into a bit of trouble paying for the pizza, so that was convenient."

Sam said nothing. It would be better to wait out his brother's rage than to continually apologize for what he knew were sloppy mistakes that were entirely his fault and unfair to Dean.

Dean finished with the credit cards and slammed the laptop shut. He picked up his keys and walked out the motel room door, only pausing to roughly say, "I'm going out." The rumble of the Impala signaled that he had left.

Well. Dean hadn't noticed that Sam was bleeding or had been beaten up. That was highly surprising, but also a bit of a relief, because Sam would rather not have his brother switch from angry to mother hen within a manner of seconds. If Dean was mad, let him be mad. Sam could do stitches himself. And, to be honest, he kind of deserved it. Forgetting to take care of the credit cards and refill the gas were errors that could cost them their lives if the situation was different.

"Honestly, Sam, you're such a screw-up," said a voice to Sam's left. He flinched, almost meeting Lucifer's eyes before stopping himself. He stood up instead, grabbing their first aid kit, and stumbled into the bathroom while clutching at his chest. It hurt to breathe in; every time his diaphragm expanded, it felt like an anvil was sitting on his lungs.

First things first, stitches. His shirt was thoroughly soaked with blood, but not enough to deal with shock - that was good, at the very least. He ripped his shirt off, ignoring Lucifer's cat calls.

"You should take up knitting," Lucifer observed as Sam wove the needle in and out of his skin, fighting to keep from groaning aloud with the stabbing sensation that was hot and sharp on his shoulder.

In, out.

Inhale.

In, out.

Exhale.

In, out.

Once completed, Sam wrapped a bandage tightly around his shoulder and threw a new flannel on over it. His arms felt like bricks to lift but the motion of bringing his arms above his head was worst; it was all he could do to not give up and wait for Dean to help him.

 _Don't be a baby. You don't need your brother to help you get dressed._

He finally wrangled his shirt over his head and made his way back to his bed, breathing heavily. Aside from the sweat beading on his forehead, his shirt covered the bruises well, and Dean needn't know what happened. He wasn't in the mood for his brother's pity, not when he didn't deserve it.

"You really have such self-pitying thoughts," Lucifer said. "Maybe we should go to a confidence class. You know, have lessons in self-esteem. I don't need it, but I'm afraid you might have an issue with it."

Sam dug his finger into his palm, waiting for Lucifer to vanish. To his dismay, the devil remained there.

"Hm. Doesn't seem to work when there's more pain in your ribs and shoulder."

Sam popped open a bottle of pills. They'd make him drowsy, but they'd stifle the pain. He fell onto the bed, wincing as he did so, and only bothered to kick off his shoes. It wasn't long before the pills did their job and he fell asleep.

* * *

"Sam? Wake up."

A rough hand was shaking Sam's shoulder. Thank God it wasn't the hurt one, or Sam probably would've yelled out on the spot.

"Hey. We're getting out of here. I want this town in my rear view mirror."

Sam sat up, clenching his teeth. His ribs cried out as he climbed out of bed, but he ignored them.

"Where are we going next?" he asked, his voice tight from the pain.

 _Has Dean noticed?_

 _No, he can't have. He would be hovering if he knew I was hurt._

"Kansas. Home sweet home. There's a job just outside of Wichita. Thought we could do the ol' salt and burn while Dick Roman is still in the wind."

Sam fumbled for words. Pain was obscuring his thoughts and it was difficult to not focus on how much his head was pounding.

"Aren't… aren't you mad at me?"

"Of course he's mad at you, you twit," Lucifer said while Dean said at the same time, "Yeah. I'm pissed at you. But that's not going to kill any ghosts, is it?"  
"Okay. I'll pack my things," Sam conceded, picking up his duffel bag. He moved slowly, deliberately, sure to not display any sign of pain that Dean could pick up on.

"Why are you moving so slowly?" Dean asked suddenly, and Sam nearly jumped, startled by the question.

"Nice job covering up that beating, Sam," Lucifer said sarcastically.

Sam's throat went dry. "Tired, I guess. I didn't sleep well last night." He'd actually slept well. But Dean didn't know that.

"Hm," Dean relented. "Grandma."

Lucifer was twirling Dean's knife in his hands.

"How far are we from Wichita?" Sam asked, trying not to pay attention to the devil.

"About six hours," Dean said. There was a sudden sound of a knife slicing into skin and Dean's head toppled off of his body and onto the floor. Lucifer stood behind Dean, grinning, wielding the knife. Blood began to spurt out of his neck.

Sam flinched, and Lucifer saw it. His devilish smile widened.

"Let's go," Dean was saying loudly. He was watching Sam intently, and Sam was sure that the flinch didn't go unnoticed, but Dean didn't seem to be doing anything about it.

 _Oh, yeah. He's pissed at me._

Sam pressed into his scar on his hand again, but nothing happened. He suddenly felt Dean's eyes on him and he stopped pressing it, pretending to scratch his hand instead, but Dean just shook his head and continued to the car.

* * *

They'd been in the car for one torturous hour - torturous because every bump had felt like a bone rattling slam to Sam's ribs, head, and shoulder, not to mention Dean was blasting his music - when Dean finally spoke. At first, Sam thought that he'd be talking about the upcoming hunt, but he was wrong.

"Look. I make mistakes, Sam. But to forget both the credit cards and the gas? Come on, you know better than that!"  
"It wasn't on purpose, Dean! I wasn't sitting in the Impala thinking, 'How can I screw over Dean today?' With the Leviathan, it just was something I wasn't thinking about, and I'm sorry for that!" Sam snapped, the effort of speaking so vehemently hurting his ribs significantly.

Dean didn't answer. His knuckles were gripping the wheel tightly, indicating how tense he was.

Yeah, this was not the day to tell Dean he was hurt.

They stopped for breakfast at a small diner, and Sam twisted his shoulder getting out of the car. An audible grunt of pain escaped his lips, and he saw Dean glance over, then continue heading into the diner without saying anything.

"Ouch, Sam. Looks like you tore your stitches open, silly goose," Lucifer said, strutting alongside Sam.

 _Crap. Lucifer is right._

He could feel the warmth of the wound increasing, and a chill ran through him. A fever, no doubt. But he'd be damned if he was going to take out the first aid kit now, when Dean could see.

Sam slid into the booth, Dean sitting across from him and very blatantly looking out the window. To Sam's dismay, Lucifer slid in next to him, forcing him to sit near the wall of the booth.

"What can I get for you boys?" their waitress asked. She was stout, her graying hair tied back in a bun that looked like was going to scalp her.

"Egg sandwich for me," Dean responded, handing her the menu that he hadn't opened once. "And a coffee please."

"And you?" she asked, turning to Sam. Lucifer chose, at that moment, to lick his finger and stick it in Sam's ear, and he twitched, trying to not move.

 _He's not real._

That didn't make the saliva-doused finger feel any less real in his ear.

"Uh… toast, please. And scrambled eggs. Thanks," Sam said, handing his menu to the waitress, who nodded and left. Dean looked away, drumming his fingers on the table.

Man, it could get awkward, living in close quarters with his brother when they were fighting.

But more distracting was the pain at the moment. Every movement felt like someone was nailing a hammer into his side, and he was beginning to feel freezing cold. He started to wrap his jacket around him, until he gave up because it hurt too much. Dean ignored the spectacle.

"Does that hurt, Sammy?" Lucifer asked when Sam tossed his jacket to his side. "You know, the blood from your shoulder is going to soak through your shirt pretty soon. It's not stitched anymore. You did a piss-poor job of stitching it yourself. Maybe if I-"

He took his finger out and quicker than expected dug it into Sam's shoulder. It felt like a second knife was digging its way into Sam's skin, and he cried out loud this time, clutching his shoulder.

"Sam?" he could hear Dean saying, but Lucifer only dug his hand in more - this time, he was ripping out handfuls of guts and blood from the wound. Lucifer's knee collided with Sam's skull, and he fell himself fall out of his seat and onto the floor - the kicks resumed, just like when the demons had come, but now it hurt a hundred times more because there were bruises-

"Sam, snap out of it!"

A warm, calloused hand was pressing into the scar on Sam's left hand. Dean. This time, it worked, and Lucifer flickered and vanished along with the kicks he had been deploying to Sam's chest at that moment. Sam blinked, and flew upwards, which only aggravated his shoulder more, and he fought passing out against the black spots in his eyes.

The entire restaurant was dead silent, watching his collapse onto the floor. No doubt he looked stupid. Dean's concerned face was hovering above his own.

"Sam, what's going on?"

"Um. Bleeding," Sam managed. "A lot."

"Where?"

"Shoulder."

Dean swore. "Sam, why didn't you say anything? You're burning up!"

"You were mad," Sam said, and now that he said it out loud it sounded much more ridiculous, not to mention absurdly childish. "I stitched it, but Lucifer-"

"Screwed with you," Dean finished. He slapped a twenty on the table and guided Sam to his feet, steadying him gently when he swayed. "Let's go find a motel to hole up in. And you're telling me exactly what happened. God, Sammy, I thought you were just being sulky."

Sam's ears were ringing and the audio around him was gradually becoming muffled, and he muttered, "Passing out," before Dean caught him. He leaned back against the wall, still vaguely aware of the people in the restaurant all watching him.

"We'll get you patched up. Is he gone?" Dean asked, referring to Lucifer. Sam glanced around.

"Yeah."  
"Good. If he comes back, you tell me, Sammy. You tell me. Alright?"

"Alright," Sam agreed, too dizzy to argue, and allowed Dean to help him into the Impala, his brother's hand still digging into his own to keep him anchored.

 _I'd be so grateful for any reviews! Thanks so much!_

 _Prompts are also more than welcomed!_


	8. Migraine

_This one is from dgsangita who requested: If it's possible could you please write one hurt Sam in S12 when he gets a killer migraine and Mary is there but Sam only wants his brother to take care of him._

 _Yes! Personally, I'm not a fan of Mary, so I'm looking forward to writing this. I'm researching migraines before I write this, but I am also just in high school, so forgive me if I get any of my facts wrong.  
Thanks!_

* * *

All in all, it was not a particularly fun week.

On Sunday, Sam and Dean had gotten word from Mary that there was a vamp nest over in Wyoming that she needed help with. They'd formed a plan: Sam would sneak in the back, Dean would take the front, and Mary would skirt the outsides for any vamps that tried to take off. She'd also have the car waiting for when they needed to leave quickly. Mary had protested, of course; she wanted to go straight into the nest, but Dean had forbidden her ("You asked for our help and we're going to help you!").

Well, the plan didn't work. The "vamp nest" turned out to be a congregation of three vamp nests and they were greatly outnumbered. They managed to kill at least eight before one of them knocked out Sam, and after that, Dean didn't have much of a chance. Sam had woken up to find himself and his brother tied up with their blood slowly being drained with a needle in their arms.

Another routine hunt in the lives of the Winchesters.

It had taken thirty minutes for Mary to get in there and untie them. Though woozy from blood loss, they'd killed the rest and made it out of the nest just in time to find a motel to check into before the sun set.

Early on Monday morning, Dean had decided to drive them to another "easy" wendigo hunt. It wasn't too far away, about forty miles from their town, but it wasn't near any other towns. Pure wilderness, Dean had called it. Fresh air, refreshing hunt.

That went down the toilet as soon as they had driven twenty miles in and the Impala had come to a stop because Dean had forgotten to refill the gas, of all things. Sam had been pissed at him, and they spent the next ten hours walking back to town. One of those hours had been spent shouting at each other, and the last nine had been in dead silence.

Between the events on Sunday and Monday, Sam would have preferred to stay at their motel on Tuesday, but Dean was adamant about taking out the wendigo they'd failed to even reach the previous day, so this time, they left the motel with a full tank of gas.

And, sure enough, the hunt _was_ easy. The son of a bitch burned within five minutes of Sam finally locating him. Unfortunately, it took them all night to find it, so it was a sleepless night of wandering around the forest searching for a cannibal that was running around at warp speed.

On Wednesday, they'd taken a break at their motel before driving back to their bunker. Mary had spent the day with them and it was admittedly awkward. Finally they'd each taken to sitting in silence in the room; Dean watching television, Mary reading, and Sam on his laptop. It wasn't the most comfortable of situations.

On Thursday, they drove back to the bunker only to find Cas at the kitchen table waiting for them angrily. Apparently, there had been a lead on Kelly Kline, and without Sam and Dean's help in hacking some camera, Cas had lost it. Sam had to admit, even after having known Cas for years, it was a bit intimidating having an angel be furious in his presence.

They'd desperately tried to pick up the lost lead and stayed up all night trying to find her, but it was no use, and by dawn Sam had given up.

On Friday, they'd gotten word that a fellow hunter had been killed in a salt and burn. It was one of their father's oldest hunting friends, and Sam and Dean had stayed with him several times as kids.

On Saturday, they lost power at the bunker due to some malfunctioning. They'd sat in the library, poring over records to find a way to turn the power back on, when Mary had gotten a phone call from Arthur Ketch, and that had put Dean in a foul mood. It had been another sleepless night before they found a way to fix the bunker, and it hadn't been made any easier by all of Dean's stone-cold comments and lack of cheer.

So, yeah, by the next Sunday Sam was ready to have a day in which he could read and not be bothered by Dean's consistently bad mood or Mary's uncomfortable presence. He loved them both dearly, of course, but he didn't particularly care to see either one of them at the moment.

Three sleepless nights, two terrible hunts, and one death over the past week.

 _And a partridge in a pear tree,_ Sam thought mulishly, rubbing his neck. It had been stiff since he'd woken up and wasn't loosening one bit. He made his way down to the kitchen in hopes of grabbing an apple before Mary or Dean woke up.

"Good morning," Mary said from behind him as Sam was fixing himself a cup of coffee. He jumped, spinning around quickly to see his mom.

"Hey. You, uh, sleep well?" he asked, wincing as a sharp pain unexpectedly pulsed in his left temple.

"Yeah. You?" she asked, moving to the cupboard and taking out the bread.

"Yeah," he said rapidly.

"You want some toast? I can make you some," Mary offered.

"Uh, I've already got-" Sam gestured to his apple. "Thank you, though."

 _Why does everything have to sound so awkward?_

The pain in his left temple throbbed again and he bit into the apple, ignoring it.

"I can make breakfast," Dean said, coming into the kitchen suddenly.

Sam set his apple down onto the counter. "You're up early."

"Figured I'd get up and make some eggs and pancakes," Dean said conversationally, taking out a pan. "You're not eating a friggin' apple for breakfast. And we've had a rough week."

Sam didn't say anything, because he wasn't hungry for anything besides an apple, but he also didn't want to dampen his brother's good mood, considering how he'd been acting the past week.

The clattering of pots and pans made Sam's temple throb even more, and he resigned himself to the library to read away from the vibrant smells, lights, and sounds that were, in all honesty, painful. The waves of sharpness that were penetrating the side of his head were becoming more frequent and severe so that he was pressing a hand to the side of his head to dull the intensity.

"Sam! Breakfast!" Dean called out twenty minutes later, his voice echoing down the hallway of the bunker. Sam stood, stretched, and entered the kitchen to have the smell of pancakes and cheesy eggs waft immediately into his sinuses. Any other day, it would have smelled great, but at the moment, it only made him feel nauseous.  
Well, he'd lived through worse nausea. He could suck it up for his brother's sake. He sat down next to his mother, accepting a plate stacked with pancakes and eggs on the side.

The pain in his left temple was spreading to the back of his head as well. He could almost feel it pulsing with his heartbeat and he forced himself to take a bite of the pancake even though it felt like a sponge going down his throat without syrup.

Dean noticed, of course, and slid the syrup over to Sam.

"Thanks. But I'm good without it," Sam said casually, feeling his stomach churn at the thought of eating syrup. His head pounded and he swallowed slowly, fighting to ignore the stabbing sensation. Dean frowned - after all, thirty plus years on the road together meant that they knew the other's eating habits relatively well - but didn't say anything.

"I'm going to go shower," Sam said finally after having eaten most of his pancakes and some of his eggs. "Thanks for breakfast."

He took off down the hall, shutting himself in the bathroom and letting out a breath of relief once the door was shut and it was blocking out all of the clinks of spoons and whir of motors. He was hoping that simply standing under the water with the lights off would soothe the headache.

Five seconds after he had turned on the water, the stabbing that had been irritating his head exploded. It was as though someone had taken an ice pick and was drilling it into every part of his skull; no longer was the pain contained to the back and left of his head - now it was covering every inch of his head from the top to both temples to the back. He screwed up his eyes, clutching at his head, and shut off the water because it felt like it was ringing in his ears.

He'd never gotten a migraine this bad.

He had barely noticed he'd fallen to his knees on the floor in an effort to squeeze the headache out of his head; grimly, he pulled his hands away from his hair, realizing that no amount of clutching his screaming head would help.

For the briefest of moments, he considered yelling for Dean, before he remembered that a _headache_ was a stupid reason to ask for help.

No, he could just go back to his bedroom and deal with it.

He stood up, clutching the sink, when bile rose in his throat and he vomited, spitting out the taste of now-sour pancakes. It made his head spin and dots filled his vision for a dizzying moment.

He didn't need Dean's help. But in all reality, this hurt like a bitch. Right up there with a broken arm. He'd never have expected that a migraine could be so excruciating, but now here he was, swaying on the floor and gripping his head in his hands.

A sudden knock on the door made his head fly upwards, and he winced as the motion sent pain down his neck.

"Sam. Are you okay?"

It was Mary.

"I'm fine," Sam said back as calmly as possible.

There was a hesitating silence on the other side of the door. "I can get, you know, medicine if you're not feeling well," she called back. Sam closed his eyes to make the spinning feeling cease.

"That's alright. I just need a couple minutes," Sam said, hardly aware of what he was saying since the resonating throbs in his head were too damn distracting. He bent by the sink and turned on the tap, drank some water, and regained his composure.

If anything, the exploding pain in his skull was only increasing. He stumbled to where he'd put his clean clothing, threw on a tee shirt and sweats, and unlocked the bathroom door. He was thankful to see that Mary wasn't hovering outside the door, but he doubted that she'd just forgotten entirely.

Sure enough, when he passed by the kitchen to go back to his bedroom, Mary stopped him.

"You sure you're okay?" she asked, her eyebrows tilted upwards. "I could hear you… vomiting."

Dean was leaning against the counter behind Mary. It was strange, having his mother check on him instead of his brother, and he found that he didn't enjoy it much. Dean looked slightly tense as well, and Sam wondered if he was feeling the same way; if he was, he didn't say anything and let Mary handle it.

"I'm fine, Mom," Sam said, offering her a smile. "It's just a bad… "

The pain had exploded again and he turned away, biting his lip to keep from saying anything else. It felt like it was reaching a point where his brain would soon split in two and his vision blurred in front of him. He hadn't realized he was leaning heavily on the counter until Mary gently touched his other arm and he snapped to, breathing heavily.

"Sam. What's wrong?" she asked, her voice more urgent now. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"I'm fine," he repeated.

Dean was still standing slouched against the counter, his sleeves rolled up and his arms crossed. His face looked increasingly concerned but yet he did nothing, and the action of doing nothing was so un-Dean-ish that Sam couldn't help but feel worse because the situation was so out of the ordinary. He avoided eye contact with his brother, knowing that he only wanted to let Mary have her chance to be mother since she'd missed both of her sons growing up.

The pain surged again and he fell to his knees like he had in the bathroom. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was embarrassed, but the throbs were too great to care about that.

 _Some hunter you are. Falling to the floor because of a headache?_

The ground was tilting beneath him like he was on an airplane that was hitting turbulence. Somewhere in the back of his throat the nausea rose again and he puked onto the floor. The violent heaving of his stomach made lights flicker in his eyes and his vision tunnelled, and the sharp pain behind his eyes reached a peak.

"Dean!" he heard himself gasp out, and as soon as he was are of what he had said, he could feel his cheeks flush with mortification - he was a grown man, for God's sake, yet he was on the floor calling for his brother.

The word had a much stronger impact than Sam could have expected. Almost as though he'd been waiting for Sam's plea for help, Dean was off of the counter and crouched by Sam's side within a second. At the same time, Mary backed up, letting Dean take over.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, putting a hand on his back. "What's wrong?"

"Migraine," Sam managed, choking out the last of the vomit onto the floor. "It's pretty damn painful," he confessed, trying to smile and only achieving in groaning in pain.

"Come on, let's get you onto your bed," Dean said, and with his brother's support Sam stood up, swaying slightly. Dean walked closely next to him in case he were to suddenly fall over, and embarrassing though the big brother help was, he greatly appreciated it. He collapsed into bed, blinking against the blinding light above him. Dean understood immediately and shut it off.

Sam could see Mary standing in the doorway, and he felt slightly guilty since she was his mother yet it was his brother that he'd called out for in a moment of panic. Dean filled a glass of cold water and set it next to Sam.

"There's not much we can do until it goes away," Dean said unnecessarily. "Here are some pills. Pop those and see if it gets any better."

"Thanks, Dean," Sam muttered, leaning against the pillow and wincing. "I'll just read or something… until it goes away."

"My tough little brother, taken out by a headache," Dean said, laughing, but his tone was gentle. "Impressive."

"Shut up," Sam said, wincing again.

Dean paused for a moment. "Let me know if you need me," he said, and left the room, followed by Mary.

Sam watched the doorway where they had left, realizing the accuracy of Dean's words. He'd let Mary handle the situation until Sam had asked for his help. It was almost symbolic, Sam thought; Dean would always be there if he needed him.

 _Sometimes I read fics where Dean is overly concerned about Sam, and those bother me because I feel like they're too OOC. I love fluff, but I try to keep it realistic. I have an older brother and I doubt he'd be tucking me into bed or something if I had a headache, so that's why I chose to keep it simple with Dean giving Sam pills then leaving. Hope it was still satisfactory!_

 _Thanks again for the prompt! I'd love to receive more!_


	9. Hands

_This prompt is from a Guest review:_

 _Sam hurts his hands somehow and can't use them for awhile, so he needs Dean's help with eating, getting dressed, hygiene, etc. Sam is sulky/embarrassed but Dean is awesome._

 _Thanks so much for the prompt! I'm so excited to write it! Keep in mind, folks, that I'm no doctor and I'm going to avoid going into the medical intricacies of this one. Roll with me, even if it's wrong - hopefully it's not, though._

 _This is set in season 3._

* * *

They should have been more careful. It was an abandoned house, built in the 1700s, and hadn't been refurbished since then. _Of course_ it would be structurally unsound.

"I'll find the kids," Dean mouthed to Sam, and he crept off to the basement, cocking his gun. Sam continued upstairs to search for the mother of the changelings that they were trying to kill.

It didn't take long to find her. She was a large woman; Sam suspected that she was only four inches shorter than him, and twice as wide.

Combine that with her supernatural strength and Sam was at a disadvantage. He turned on the flamethrower, pointing it wildly towards her, but she dodged it with surprising agility and tackled him around the waist. Sam could feel his head slam backwards into a hard surface; he wasn't quite sure what, but it was painful. He shook his head to fight off the spots as the woman lifted him and pushed him backwards.

He managed to throw a punch into her face and she released him, clutching her nose, as he dove for the dropped flamethrower. With shaking hands he tried to turn it back on, but the changeling mother recovered too soon and went for his throat. Sam scrabbled uselessly at her meaty hands around his neck - she began to push him backwards again, and he felt a moment of panic as he realized there was a window behind him. She thrust him forward towards the window and Sam didn't have time to experience free-falling from a two story window - his head crashed against the thin glass of the window and the world spiraled into darkness.

* * *

"You and your brother are free to go home," the doctor said, handing Dean the release papers. Sam watched, sulking, from the bed.

All in all, it was one of the worst hunts he'd ever been on. He'd gotten a concussion and many bruises and cuts courtesy of being pushed out of the window.

But that wasn't the worst of it. According to Dean, he'd plunged head first; fortunately, he'd landed in a garden, softened with soil, and his hands had broken his fall.

Now, both of his hands were wrapped up in thick casts that wouldn't be coming off for weeks.

"Hey, at least you'll spend more time with your big brother during his last year," Dean told Sam, grinning, as they drove out of the hospital parking lot. Sam scowled at Dean, then down at his hands, which were not only incapable of doing anything with the thick gauze but also supposed to "rest" - which meant no hunting.

"This look nice enough?" Dean asked as they pulled into a motel. Sam frowned at the olive exterior; this is where they'd be holed up for the next few weeks, then. He shrugged and reached for the door handle before realizing there was no way he could open it. Dean saw and immediately leaned over to help.

The fact that his older brother was leaning across him to open the stupid car door for him only made him more angry, and once the door was open, he stormed out, realizing only then that it was raining hard.

Dean came around from the other side of the Impala, holding both of their duffel bags. Sam reached for his, his arm outstretched. Dean raised his eyebrows at him, his hair getting dampened by the hard rain.

"You're supposed to rest," he said bluntly before continuing past Sam.

Sam glared at his brother's back before following him into the motel lobby.

"Hi. I'd like a room with two queens," Dean told the man at the desk.

"Smoking or non-smoking?"

"Non-smoking."

"Name?"

"Dean Hagar," Dean said promptly, giving him one of what Sam knew was his brother's favorite aliases.

 _Because that makes me Sammy Hagar,_ he thought humorlessly.

"That'll be one hundred a night," the man said, chewing his gum slowly. Dean's smile faded.

"You're kidding me, right?" he asked. "This dump of a place?"  
"That's the price. Cough it up or find another place," the man said flatly, scratching his bald head.

"Can we get a discount, just for tonight?" Dean asked diplomatically. "See, my brother's just got out of the hospital and we need a place for the night. There isn't another town for miles."

"I know," the man said, waiting.

Sam watched as his brother glared back at the man, almost in a showdown, then he whirled around.

"Let's go, Sam," Dean said over his shoulder, carrying their duffel bags out the door. They walked back into the rain and into the Impala.

"Well, another night at Motel Winchester," Dean said to Sam, who didn't answer. Dean pulled the car out of the lot and to a nearby rest stop where he turned off the engine and got out of the car to get the blankets they kept in the trunk.

"Here," Dean said, thrusting a blanket at Sam. "It's supposed to get cold tonight. Good thing your hands will be warm." He nodded to Sam's wrapped up hands and grinned again.

It only pissed Sam off more. He wasn't sure why he was so angry, but at the moment he was seeing red, and the last thing he wanted was to spend another night in close quarters with his brother.

"Granola bar?" Dean asked, offering one to Sam after pulling one out of the backseat. Sam nodded and took the snack, feeling his brother's eyes on him. He fumbled to hold the bar with his hands wrapped up in the casts, let alone tear it open.

"Damn it," he muttered, when the bar dropped out of his hands. He averted his eyes away from Dean's face.

"Want help?" Dean asked blatantly. Sam nodded mutely. Dean unwrapped the bar for him and handed it back, leaving Sam to grasp the granola bar between his hands tightly in case it dropped.

* * *

Dean woke up the next morning to find that he was shivering. The temperature had dropped considerably over the night, and frost now coated the car's windshield. He turned to see Sam sleeping restlessly, shifting, and could see goosebumps on his arms.

He started the engine to turn the heat up. Sam jerked awake next to him, looking surprised for a moment before a bitchy expression settled onto his face again.

He'd been annoyingly bitchy for the past twelve hours. Dean supposed that it was expected - having to get help opening a car door and a granola bar tended to hurt Winchester pride - but it still irritated him nonetheless. He didn't say anything, however, and shifted the Impala out of park.

"How about we go find a motel?" he asked, and turned onto the road.

* * *

It took four hours to find a town large enough to have a motel in it. They checked in, settled into the room, and that was when Sam spoke for the first time in a while.

"I'm going to shower," he said, heading into the bathroom with a tee shirt, flannel, and jeans in his hands. Dean nodded, turning the television on.

Sam was always moody when he was hurt. He clearly hated dependency and pity, so obviously Dean didn't plan on bombarding him with help - but man, that kid needed to learn how to accept help from others.

Sure enough, he could hear fumbling in the bathroom and a string of curses before the water finally started. He'd brought plastic bags in with him to cover the cast while he showered and Dean figured that had taken a while to wrap.

The water shut off after twelve minutes. It was a long shower, especially for Sam, who tended to take very quick showers ("Water isn't expendable, Dean!").

Another ten minutes passed and Sam suddenly burst out of the bathroom door, looking even more moody than he had the previous night. His flannel was on over his flannel shirt, but it wasn't buttoned.

 _Oh. He can't button it with the casts._

Dean stood automatically to help, ignoring Sam's loathing look as he began to button up the shirt.

"Haven't done this since I was eight years old," Dean said cheerfully.

"Shut up," Sam muttered, casting him an angry look. "I hate this."

"Yeah, I know you do," Dean replied, finishing the last button. "Hungry?"

Sam shrugged, and that was, in Dean's book, Sam-speak for "Yes, but I don't want to admit that I'm hungry because I hate being dependent on other people." So he picked up the keys and jangled them a bit.

"I'll go get a pizza. You want veggies on it?" he asked, knowing that Sam enjoyed the vegetables even if he himself would have preferred a meat pizza.

Sam nodded, his face softening a bit at Dean's sacrifice for him.

"Be back in thirty," Dean said, swinging his jacket on.

* * *

Sam watched Dean leave, feeling a bit of relief that not only was his brother not hovering too much, but he'd have some space for half an hour.

It was too difficult to try to press buttons on the remote with his broken fingers, so instead he resorted to using his toes. He sighed, skimming the channels; it wasn't fun having all of the programs switch channels with every new motel they stayed at.

Dean returned thirty minutes later, as promised, with the scent of pizza wafting in. He placed the box down on the counter and took out napkins before looking at Sam.

"Dude. Wipe the frown off your face. I know it sucks," he said, putting a pizza on a napkin for himself. He rummaged in the cupboard of the motel room and found a plate before placing a slice onto it and beginning to cut it up into bite-sized pieces.

"I can hold a piece of pizza-" Sam began to protest, but his voice trailed off as he looked at the slices. They were floppy and no doubt he'd only get sauce all over his cast.

"You can hold a fork, right?" Dean confirmed, handing Sam the plate with the pizza cut up on it.

"With both hands, yeah," Sam said, accepting the fork and using both hands to stab at the pieces of pizza and eat them. He paused, mid-chew. "Thanks."

"No problem," Dean said, stretching out onto the bed. He surfed the channels, flicking through them quickly.

"The Office or Lord of the Rings?" he asked finally once he'd gone through them all.

Sam considered. "Lord of the Rings," he decided, and they kept it on that channel until night had fallen.

* * *

Sam woke up to his phone ringing, and he jumped, nearly falling out of bed. It took a moment to accept the call and he struggled to pick it up before simply putting it on speaker phone.

"Sam? You there?" came Bobby's voice through the phone. "Are you still in Tennessee?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"There's a hunt over in Auburntown. A friend of mine called, and it's an easy salt and burn but he's injured and can't do it. Can you boys take care of it?"

"Yeah. Yeah, definitely. Thanks, Bobby."

"Be careful, now," the gruff voice responded. Sam grinned.

"Bye, Bobby," he said, and ended the call with his big toe; it was easier. Dean had woken by now and his eyes lingered on Sam's wrapped hands.

"You're not doing the hunt," he said simply. "I'll take care of it."

"You're not going alone," Sam refuted immediately. "I can still come, even if I can't shoot the gun-"

"Yeah, and what if you fall, or get knocked out of a window again? Not happening. Bobby said it's a simple salt and burn, though. I'll be in and out." He threw some of his clothing into his duffel bag. "And when we dig the corpse, I'll let you be on flashlight duty, if it makes you feel better." He leered at Sam, packing the rest of their meagre possessions.

Sam sighed, admitting defeat. "Fine." He went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and found himself staring at the tube of toothpaste, his frustration growing. He attempted taking the tube between his two cast-covered hands and only succeeded in dropping it onto the floor. He bent to pick it up and nailed his head on the counter in the precise spot where it had broken the glass of the window, groaning, he placed his hand against the welt and shut his eyes.

It took him a moment to realize Dean was standing in the doorway. His brother wordlessly took the tube and smeared some toothpaste onto Sam's toothbrush for him, then handed it to him. Sam took it with both hands and began an awkward brushing that involved both of his arms going back and forth.

"How's the head?" Dean asked, lazily leaning against the doorway.

"It's fine," Sam said, his words obscured slightly by the brush in his mouth.

"You sure?"

"I said I'm fine," Sam insisted, feeling heat rise into his cheeks. He spit into the sink, shoved his toothbrush back into the plastic bag he kept it in, then made his way over to his shoes to put them on.

It didn't take him long to realize that he couldn't squeeze his feet in without untying the shoes.

 _Here we go again,_ Sam thought mulishly as he glanced over towards his brother.

"Hey, Dean," he called out tentatively. Dean's head immediately appeared around the corner of the bathroom.

"Yeah?"

Sam internally cursed himself. "I need help with my laces."

"It's like we're kids again," Dean said as he crouched by Sam's feet to help. "You want me to make you a bowl of Lucky Charms now?"

"Shut up, jerk."

"You know I can make fun of you when you need help tying your shoes, bitch," Dean responded, a smile playing on his lips.

 _Wow. Sometimes I look back at my writing and wonder how (a) I can be so horrible and (b) how I can be so corny. My apologies. This is not one of my proudest writing moments._

 _Hope it was satisfactory and again, thanks for the prompt!_


	10. Surf

_Hey guys! I just wanted to let you know that I often forget to respond to reviews, so for those of you that left a review that I didn't respond to, I'm not ignoring you intentionally - and it means the world to me that you wrote it!_

 _This prompt is from ItzAGoodThing:_

 _How about, for whatever reason, Sam drowns. He isn't breathing by the time Dean gets him back on shore, and he has to perform rescue breathing until Sam starts beating again. Anytime after season 1._

 _It took me a while to come up with something that wasn't plotless, and it's a bit weird, but forgive me - it'll probably seem off track, but I felt compelled to write it this way._

 _This is set in season 2._

* * *

"A turtle. You want to hunt a _turtle_?" Dean asked, incredulity in his voice. "Dad never mentioned any turtles in his journal-"

"It's not a turtle. It's an aspidochelone, or asp-turtle. And it sounds insane, but I think we're dealing with one! Entire ships seem to be docking in the middle of the ocean on uncharted islands, then they sink. Asp-turtles rest in the middle of the ocean, pretending to be an island, and then they eat sailors."

Dean put a hand in his hand to signal Sam to stop. "Dude. We hunt ghosts and wendigos. We don't hunt things that are the size of a friggin' island!"

"Yeah, it's big, but it's really easy to take down," Sam protested, thumbing through a book he'd gotten at the library. "All we need to do is perform a banishing spell, and it sinks to the bottom of the ocean forever."

Dean sighed. "Fine. Where is it?"

"Well, it's a bit far, but I figured since it's winter and we've been doing some cold hunts lately…" Sam met his brother's eyes. "It's in the Florida Keys."

"Oh, come on! We're in Wisconsin!" Dean argued. "Isn't there anything closer?"

"Nothing we haven't done a million times. It's something new!"

Dean sighed. "Alright." He paused, a smile growing across his face. "At least we'll get to meet some chicks," he said, wiggling his eyebrows. "In bikinis!"

* * *

They arrived in Florida two days later to find that the sun was as warm and bright as they'd hoped on their drive down. The beach that the asp-turtle was supposed to be off of was also renowned for having good surf, so Dean opted for a nicer motel on the water than the ones they usually got.

It was a nice change of pace, having sheets that felt clean and a room that smelled fresh instead of stale french fries. Since they never crossed through Florida while driving to hunts, it was rare that they took a case in the state, least of all in the Keys.

"So you got the spell all ready to go?" Dean asked, waving his hand vaguely in the air. Sam nodded.

Dean turned the television on to a sports game. "Let's go out tonight. Get it done, and then do a bit of vacationing."

Sam looked up from his laptop. "You're serious? I thought you were bent on going on non-stop hunts lately."

Dean didn't answer. Sam watched him a moment longer before returning to his research on asp-turtles. From what the spell looked like, it seemed like it would be an easy hunt.

* * *

Was it ever an easy hunt?

Not according to Sam and Dean's luck, it seemed, Sam thought wryly as their small boat they had rented dipped dangerously to the side as the giant turtle roared in anger. Fortunately, it was extremely slow, but that didn't stop it from being able to make huge waves that made their boat nearly flip.

Dean was clinging to the edge of the boat, looking like he was going to vomit, so Sam took over with the spell.

If the turtle hadn't been sending waves towards them, it would have been a peaceful night. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, so the moonlight lit up the ocean's surface magnificently. The water looked black with the night and Sam couldn't help but imagine a shark fin, gliding underneath.

But that was silly. After everything they'd faced, it was stupid to be afraid of something as normal as a shark.

"Now, Sam!" Dean yelled, and Sam began reading the Latin.

"Et abiit, pluruma. Descendat, et non ascendat in mare."

The island-sized turtle rearer upwards then splashed back into the water, roaring so loudly that Sam had to fight the impulse to cover his ears. Their boat rocked back and forth in the waves and he wasn't quite sure how they were still upright.

"Numquam iterum gratia tua mali sunt aquae. Cume his verbis, descendebat secundum tempus in interitu occisorum in tuo usque in sempiternum. Relinquatis: turtur, et non revertetur!" Sam shouted, and suddenly the turtle began to sink into the water as though someone had set weights on top of it. It made a squealing sound, one of its legs splashing up by the surface and nearly overturning their boat into the water. The boat tipped violently to the right and Sam tumbled, feeling his head ricochet off of the side. Fortunately, the boat righted itself just before it rolled, and Sam climbed back into the boat, soaking wet from the water that had sloshed on board.

"You all right?" came Dean's voice from the other end of the boat. He too was on the ground, shaking water out of his hair.

Sam brushed a hand over his forehead, and it came away with blood. It didn't feel too painful, though, so he assumed it was cosmetic.

"I'm fine," he decided. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Let's get back before this boat sinks," Dean said, taking hold of the wheel. They cruised off into the night towards shore, the water now peaceful with only the remains of the large waves lapping harmlessly at the edge of the boat.

* * *

They walked back into their darkened motel room a bit more positively than times of the past. Not only had the hunt been successful, but neither of them had gotten dramatically hurt, and it was _quick._ Nothing was more annoying than a hunt that took many hours to do.

Dean stripped off his shirt to head into the bathroom. He paused to grin at Sam. "Ice cream. Beaches. Girls. It can't get any better than this. Besides, now that Dad's… not around, we need a breather."

Sam laughed, taking off his own shirt while he waited for Dean to finish in the bathroom. It was nearing one in the morning, but he wasn't climbing into bed before showering; not with the salt from the ocean clinging to him. Dean finished within ten minutes and he took the shower, pleased to see that the hot water wasn't gone.

* * *

"This is weird."

Sam and Dean were walking along the boardwalk, each holding an ice cream cone, strolling along like… people. Normal people.

"This is bizarre," Dean agreed. "Man, I wish we'd worn shorts."

He was right. Sam was sweating in his jeans. Neither of them had thought to wear shorts in the hot Florida sun. Every hunt they went on, it was always Winchester Protocol to wear jeans, because scratches to the legs were all too common. In addition, if the hunt went wrong and they were left outside overnight or got wet, they'd need warmer clothing.

So, yeah, Sam thought, watching everyone walk around them in bathing suits and shorts, it must be a Winchester thing - not dressing appropriately.

Dean seemed to be enjoying himself for the first time in ages. Sam hadn't seen his brother smile like he was now since… before their Dad had died. But between the sunshine and the chatter of people milling about, it had put a smile on Dean's face, and Sam couldn't help but smile as well.

Dean suddenly slapped his arm. "Dude. Surfing lessons."

Sam looked at him, surprised. "You're not serious?"

"Dead serious."  
Sam struggled for words. "But… we don't…"

"Why not?" Dean persisted.

Sam had no answer. He shrugged. "Fine. You can do it."

Dean's smile faded. "You're such a girl. You don't want to do it? Come on!"

Sam felt his face get hot. "I want to do it. I just… what if there are… sharks? Or stingrays?"

Dean blinked at him. "You're kidding me, right? All of the things we see that go bump in the night and you're afraid of fish?"

Sam could feel himself getting defensive. "Things that go bump in the night are stopped by things like salt and iron. If a shark decides it wants to take a bite out of you, what are you supposed to do? I don't think that an exorcism, or… or silver would scare it!"

"Yeah. We need to get out more," Dean said, looking at Sam. "Let's go, princess."

And that was how thirty minutes later, they were standing on the beach with ten other _normal_ people, watching a sandy-haired guy in his twenties demonstrate how to transition from the stomach to the feet on a surfboard.

The waves weren't large, but high enough to catch a wave. Sam looked warily at the cerulean water, praying that he wouldn't see any dark shapes or fins, and once they'd finished the brief lesson and gotten a surfboard, he waded out into the water with Dean, shuffling his feet as the instructor had told them so that if there was a stingray in the sand, they'd scare it away.

That wasn't very reassuring.

"How come we've never done anything like this?" Dean asked once they were on their boards and slowly paddling out. "We've literally been everywhere in the country. Rock climbing, skiing, horseback riding - we should try things out more."

Sam nodded in silent agreement, his eyes still scanning the water desperately for any sign of a fish.

"Stop it. There won't be any sharks," Dean said, noticing Sam's paranoia and rolling his eyes. "Dude. Shark attacks are so much less common than ghost attacks. I'd be more worried about another asp-turtle coming over."

Just as he finished his words, the instructor's voice called over to them.

"There's a good wave coming up! Get ready!"

Sam watched Dean begin to prepare to catch the wave, following his brother's moves. Somehow, Dean had caught onto this easily and knew exactly what he was doing; Sam, on the other hand, was hoping desperately that he wouldn't fall after three seconds and humiliate himself.

And then, they were suddenly pushing off of their stomachs and standing up, the wave riding underneath them smoothly and quickly.

Sam could appreciate the beauty of it before a sudden headache, pulsing in his head like a siren, made him fall to his knees. He could see flashes of a girl… a girl brushing her teeth in her room.

The ocean flickered back into view and he caught his breath right before the wave swallowed him. He tumbled underwater as the girl returned to his vision.

She was spitting into the sink, glancing backwards as the door opened behind her. A man walked in, and she stumbled backwards, clearly unsure of who this man was.

Then, he was underwater, and he could feel bubbles flying out of his mouth as the wave knocked him around like a washing machines. He could feel his back scraping against sand, and he paddled wildly for air before the pain behind his eyes peaked.

The girl was shoved backwards against the mirror, and it shattered, glass gouging her back. The man took out a knife, and with one swift stab, he plunged it into her heart. The girl blinked, looking stunned, and then she slumped over onto the floor, unmoving.

The blue of the ocean filled Sam's vision again and he instinctively breathed in only to choke on water. His lungs felt contradicted, and he couldn't breathe - but the surface was right there! He swam upwards, trying to reach it, and that was when another wave reared above him, knocking him backwards towards the sand again.

 _This isn't how I die_ , Sam thought desperately, feeling his head go fuzzy, and he kicked again only to find himself swimming towards the sand. Dazed, he felt consciousness leave him as another wave tugged at his body and spun him around again.

* * *

Dean could see Sam falling out of the corner of his eye. He snorted, feeling pleased with himself that was managing to stay upright while Sam toppled over like a ragdoll.

Man, it was a great feeling being better at surfing than his brother.

That was his thought right before his balance suddenly abandoned him and he fell into the water himself, the wave he had been riding crashing over his head. Spitting salt water, he swam towards the surface, grabbing onto his surfboard and grinning.

"Sam! Did you see that?" he called out to Sam, searching for the shaggy wet head.

But there was no shaggy wet head. Only Sam's surfboard, bobbing to the surface and rocking underneath a wave, was visible. Dean frowned, paddling over. It was probably a joke - or Sam had hit his head on something.

"Sam!" he called again, hearing no response. He dove underwater, opening his eyes, even though it stung painfully with the salt.

Sam was about twenty feet away, kicking wildly, and he didn't look very coordinated - or coherent. Adrenaline kicked in, and Dean lunged forward, swimming as quickly as he could in the aqua water towards his brother.

The waves kept pushing against him and he swore, pushing past them and reaching the spot where he'd seen Sam. Without further ado he dove under, grabbing Sam's unmoving body and dragging him towards the surface. Fortunately, Sam was much easier to carry in the water than out of it, and Dean propelled his brother's head above the surface, dearly hoping to hear Sam cough or otherwise give some indication that he was awake.

He didn't move.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, pushing him up onto the surfboard and beginning to swim them back to shore which was, thank God, not too far away.

He finally made contact with the sand with his feet, and sprinted as quickly as he could - which wasn't very fast, since he was submerged, and he felt like molasses - to drag Sam onto the shore.

"What happened?!" the instructor shouted, but Dean didn't answer; he was feeling for a pulse. He nearly shouted with relief when he found one, but Sam wasn't breathing, and that was the issue at hand.

Almost hearing his father's training in his voice as he did so, Dean tilted Sam's chin back onto the sand, and gave him two rescue breaths, willing him to breathe.

Sam sputtered, and water came choking out of his mouth as he sat up violently, eyes wide with panic.

"Dean!" he said almost instantly, gripping his brother. "We need to - we have to go!"

"Hold on!" Dean said, holding Sam's shoulders steady with his own hands. "You just drowned! Calm down!"

Sam's breathing was labored. Dean's eyes met Sam's, and he lined up his own breaths as a model. Sam slowed his pace, taking deeper, slower breaths, the wild look in his eyes fading. A crowd of people was now around them and Sam glanced at them anxiously. Dean threw them a dirty look but none of them moved.

"Let me through!" came the instructors voice, and he crouched next to Sam. "Are you alright, dude? I'll call 911-"

"No!" Dean interrupted. "He's fine-"

"It's protocol, and he needs a hospital - he just drowned!"  
"No!" Sam and Dean both snapped at the same time, and the instructor looked so surprised that he froze.

"Dean, we need to… I need to tell you something," Sam insisted, gripping his brother's shoulder. Dean cast a look at the people all around them.

"Go away!" he said angrily. No one moved. "I swear, get away right now and give us some frickin' space!"

The instructor backed away, and almost as though following his example, everyone else followed, staying a short distance away.

"Dean, there's a girl - she's going to die. We need to save her," Sam whispered, keeping his voice low so as to not let the surrounding people hear.

"Vision? Is that why you fell?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded.

Dean sighed. "Dude, you need to have better timing. You almost died."

"I'm sorry," Sam said, an apologetic look on his face. Dean ran his hands over his face, keeping his stress at bay.

"Alright. Do you know where she is?"

"Middlebury, Vermont. She was at the college, I think, because there was a Middlebury mascot and sweatshirt."

Dean helped Sam stand, and they brushed the sand off of the hair before turning to the shocked onlookers.

"Thanks for the lesson," Dean said to the instructor, and he gestured out to the water. "My surfboard is out there somewhere."

The instructor gaped as they made their way off of the beach, Dean sticking close to Sam in case his little brother needed him at all, but not hovering - after all, it was only another near-death. They'd had worse.

 _Really weird one, right? But I read a fic recently (I can't remember what it was called or who wrote it though, sorry ) where they went surfing and for some reason the idea of Sam and Dean surfing stuck in my mind. I'd love to see them do it on the show._

 _But until then, this will have to suffice. Thanks again for the prompt, ItzAGoodThing!  
Upcoming prompts for Idreamofivan and VegasGranny are on their way!  
Prompts and reviews are much appreciated :)_


	11. Lungs

**A/N:** _Well. I didn't intend for this to come out so late. I started to write it, didn't like what I wrote, restarted, etc. Also, homework came up. Anyway, here was the amazing prompt from Idreamofivan. Note that I abridged it a bit because it was too long to fit in here! :D_

 _First, it is discovered that Sam has some sort of chronic illness. He gets checked out by doctors (much to his displease) and they discover that he has some chronic illness. Once they are able to bring all the levels back to normal, Sam should be able to live a pretty normal life, only getting like a shot or a pill a day. But, since the illness has gone undetected for so long, because Sam's life has been interesting, the situation is now critical and his immune system is destroyed. Dean goes into overprotective mode, they obviously stop hunting until Sam gets better, but Sam is going crazy and while he appreciates Dean's care, his constant reminder about everything he has to and can't do and his overprotectiveness is driving him nuts._

 _This is set during season 13, after Bring 'Em Back Alive. Pretty much a season 13 AU._

 _ **WARNINGS:**_ _Spoilers for the recent episode, 3x18. There is also content regarding a chronic illness, so beware of potentially sensitive content._

 _Please keep in mind that I'm no doctor, so though I tried to keep this all as correct as possible, some details might be tweaked/exaggerated/wrong._

* * *

Something was horribly wrong. Sam could feel it in the pit of his stomach - the beginnings of panic that made his chest constrict and heart flip-flop.

He couldn't stop staring in horrific wonder at the tissue he'd just coughed into. Bright red blood was splattered onto the white tissue, innocently shining in the light of the lamp he'd turned on.

He'd gone to bed an hour ago, even though it was only eight at night. Dean was pissed because of what had happened with Gabriel, and Sam didn't have any interest in taking his brother's heat at the moment. Besides, what with trying to open up the rift, he'd hardly gotten more than five hours of sleep at a time for the past week.

The cough was what had woken him up. Sharp and painful, like it was tearing the flesh off of his throat, and it made him jolt awake. He'd thrown on his light, grabbing a tissue to cough into, and that's when he saw - and tasted - the blood.

But this _couldn't_ be happening. He'd stopped doing the Trials years ago. Unless they had some strange after-effect, this blood couldn't be because of that.

At least, Sam hoped with all of his heart that it wasn't because of the Trials.

 _You should tell Dean_ , his conscience whispered into his ear, but Sam disregarded that idea immediately. Sure, they were both well aware now that hiding things only led to anger and mistrust, but there was no way in hell Sam was approaching his brother about a cough at the moment. Not after the way he'd heard Dean say " _Son of a bitch!"_ and seen the cold fury in his eyes.

Sam shut off the lamp light, stifling another cough that wanted to come up. He'd deal with this later. Of course, it could be something dangerous and life-threatening, but he found that he didn't care much.

So what if he died? It was a thought he hadn't had since when he'd thought Dean had died taking down Amara. But with Jack gone, his mom gone, and the _constant_ stress of saving everyone, he didn't have the energy. In fact, once the initial surprise at finding the blood on the tissue was gone, Sam found that he didn't much care about whether or not the blood he was coughing up was a health risk. Well, he didn't doubt that it _wasn't_ a health risk. Supernatural or medical, he didn't care.

Sam leaned back down onto his pillow, tasting the metallic blood in his mouth, and closed his eyes.

* * *

 _ **Seven weeks later**_

Dean noticed Sam's strange behavior first when they were on a hunt. Seven whole weeks had passed since he'd gotten back to the bunker to find that Sam and Cas had used the rest of Gabriel's friggin' grace, and though he still hadn't gotten over it, it seemed better to hunt and kill instead of sitting on their asses waiting for something to happen. And nothing had happened. Absolutely no damn leads on how to get into the other world, no damn word from Cas, no damn sign of Gabriel, nothing.

They were in Concord, New Hampshire, killing a nest of changelings. It was the first time they'd found changelings in years, and even with the current stress at hand Dean had to admit that it felt good to kill the mother changeling. He'd molotov'ed it with fire while Sam held it down. It was the first hunt in a long time that hadn't gone to hell, and he'd actually enjoyed it, working alongside his brother just like the old times.

They went to a bar afterwards to get a well-deserved meal - they last thing they'd eaten was the burnt toast at the motel. It was moist, floppy, and nothing short of disgusting, and Dean couldn't wait to eat a real meal.

"Classic cheeseburger for me, fries, and a beer," Dean told the waitress, who was short with a brunette pixie-cut. She nodded and turned to Sam.

"Nothing for me, thanks. Actually, just a water," Sam said, smiling at her and handing her the menu.

"Nothing?" Dean asked, wrinkling his nose, once the waitress had left. "Dude. You're such a girl."

Sam shrugged. "I'm not hungry."

And that was when Dean first noticed it - Sam hadn't been eating much lately. Obviously, Sam never ate a lot of food at a time (was it even possible to overeat salad?), but he'd eaten less than usual. An apple here and there for breakfast, half a sandwich - _maybe_ \- for lunch, and small salads for dinner. That is, if he ate dinner.

Dean hadn't noticed at first, because he hadn't regulated Sam's meals since he was a kid. But come to think of it, he hadn't seen Sam eat a _large_ meal since… well, since before their mom had gone through the rift.

"Not hungry," Dean repeated, probing. "Why?"

Sam's eyes narrowed instantly, and Dean sipped his beer casually, staring his brother down. It was almost an unspoken staring contest, until Sam's eyes averted.

"I don't know," he said a bit forcefully. "Maybe because burnt changeling ruined my appetite."

That was true, the smell of the burning changeling hadn't been very pleasant. They'd burnt her until her skin was nothing more than ashes.

Dean didn't let Sam's wimpy excuse stop him, though.

"It's never bothered you before," he noted.

"Well, it does now."

"Job getting too tough for you? Want me to light some scented candles next time?" Dean snarked, appreciating the flicker of annoyance cross Sam's face.

"Dean, we're not kids anymore. You don't have to _question_ me."

That was all Dean needed to know that Sam wasn't just "not hungry". He contemplated his younger brother, who was now looking determinedly in the other direction. The more he looked, the more he could feel the old big brother concern in the back of his mind.  
Sam was thinner. A small part of him wondered if he was imagining it, but there was no doubt that he'd lost weight. The flannel Sam was wearing had once been tight, but now… it wasn't.

Sam's face was pale. Maybe it was the lighting in the bar. But his little brother definitely looked almost _sickly_. There wasn't much color in his face, which also looked thinner.

The rest of the meal was in silence. Sam sat, sipping at his water every so often, but eating nothing more. Dean ate his burger quickly and paid, not bothering to get a second beer like he might have usually.

Their hunt had been far from a bunker, so Dean drove them to a dumpy motel that was on the outskirts of town. He grabbed his duffel out of his bag and through Sam's bag to him, heading to the lobby to get a room like he'd done thousands of times before.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched his brother.

There wasn't any more denying it. Sam looked like shit.

"Alright, cut the crap, Sam," Dean said firmly once they'd gotten into the motel room. He gestured with his hands. "What's going on?"

Sam looked up from his laptop, startled, from where he was sitting at the desk. "Nothing's going on."

"Yeah. I said, cut the crap, Sam. You look terrible. You didn't eat anything."

Sam frowned. "The changeling ruined my appetite-"

Dean laughed humorlessly. "Okay, then. How about we spar, then, huh? Just like old times?"

Sam's expression turned sour. "Spar? We haven't done that in years."

"I know," Dean said, waiting to see Sam's reaction.

"I'd just kick your ass," Sam said, still frowning. "I always kick your ass. Shorty," he added, smiling weakly. "I'm fine, Dean. Really."

Dean didn't buy it.

"Alright, Hulk. Just let me know when you're ready to share with the class," Dean said, scowling. He situated himself onto the bed to watch the sports game, watching Sam out of the corner of his eye. His too-thin brother. How had he not noticed it before?

Sam coughed loudly and excused himself to the bathroom. Dean's eyes followed him as he shut the door, and he swung himself off of the bed.

"'I'm fine, Dean,'" Dean muttered under his breath, repeating Sam's words. "Fine, my ass."

He waited until the sounds of Sam brushing his teeth ended, then poised himself outside of the bathroom door to wait for his Sasquatch brother to emerge.

The lock clicked and with a squeaky groan the door slid open. Sam came through it and the next second, Dean lunged forward and pinned him against the wall.

"What the hell!" Sam yelled. "Dean!"

Dean pushed him harder against the wall. "Come on, Sam! Fight back!"

Sam struggled under Dean's arms but it was futile. Dean gritted his teeth; pinning Sam was no easy feat.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sam shouted, failing to shove Dean's arms away.

"Proving a point," Dean responded, his voice tight. "Fight back, Sam."

"I'm not doing this," Sam said, relaxing under the pin Dean was holding him under. "I'm not in the mood to _spar_."

Dean released him. "You're rusty, Sam," he said pointedly. He could see Sam have an internal struggle with his pride.

"No," Sam finally argued, his face clearing and voice assuming the I'm-smarter-than-you-Dean tone. "I don't feel like playing this crap. Get off."

Dean moved away. "Sam, I'm proving a point."

Sam didn't answer.

"What the hell, Sam?! Stop pretending nothing's wrong. Are you sick? Talk to me, dude. You're weak, I can see it. You're not eating. You couldn't even shove me off of you."

"I'm just tired, Dean."

"Bullshit. What's wrong?" Dean said, hardly in the mood to relent. He lowered his tone a bit. "Sammy, we've been through so much shit together that whatever's goin' on with you right now can't be the end of the world. Because we've been through the end of the world, and it ain't this."

Sam's eyes flickered from Dean's face and to the floor. He suddenly pushed past Dean and made his way to the chair, sitting down. "Okay. But, if I tell you, you can't freak out."

"I don't _freak out_."

"Dean," Sam said, his face etched with seriousness. "You have to promise not to… to panic, or… or to get mad… okay?"

Dean considered his brother. "I'll try not to," he said finally.

Sam cleared his throat. "Okay. So, several weeks ago, I wasn't really feeling right - I won't elaborate - and I ended up going to a doctor. And… he diagnosed me with bronchiectasis."

"Bronchiectasis," Dean repeated. "What the hell is that?"

"It's not that bad," Sam said quickly. "It's a… condition, I guess, where your lungs get damaged and bacteria can easily get it. That means that the passage to the lungs can get infected, or… blocked." His last word ended quietly and he looked down, unable to look at his brother.

"God, Sammy, why didn't you say anything?" Dean asked, sitting down as well and rubbing his hand over his face.

"I didn't want you to worry-"

"Oh, come on, not that shit again-"

"No, listen, Dean. I didn't want you to worry because we've already been working our asses off trying to reach Mom. I wasn't about to slow us down because of a _cough_."

Dean made eye contact with Sam's anxious gaze at him and tried to not shake his head. "Alright. So, how do we fix this?"

"What?"

"How do we fix this?" Dean reiterated, his voice stone cold. "Because there's no damn way we're going to just do nothing about this-"

"Well, you don't really fix it," Sam said, his voice trailing off. He cleared his throat again. "I mean, there's physical therapy, uh… vaccinations, pills… but it's not really something you cure."

"We do that, then," Dean said firmly. "We're not going to let some lung thingy slow you down."

"But I…" Sam began to say, but then he coughed slightly. "Alright." He looked at Dean uneasily, as though he wasn't sure if he would get mad or not.

"So, this _condition_ is preventing you from eating?" Dean said a minute later once Sam had settled into bed.

"No, I'm just not hungry," Sam said, his voice firmer.

"Yeah. Well, you're eating this," Dean said, throwing him a granola bar that had been in his bag for a couple of weeks. "No buts."

"Dean-"

"Shut up and eat it."

Sam tore the wrapper off angrily and stared at the granola bar with disdain. Dean almost snorted; Sam looked like a petulant child.

It took an hour for Sam to fall asleep. The moment that Dean could hear the heavy, deep breathing of his brother, he silently slipped out of bed and approached Sam's duffel.

Fortunately, Sam's laptop was fully charged, and Dean opened it to find a very bright picture of some sort of vegetation he must have been researching (geek). Squinting, he dimmed the brightness, glancing backwards at Sam, who hadn't twitched at all.

It didn't take long to find a medical page on bronchiectasis. It was in Sam's history. Dean skimmed over the words quickly, each one feeling like an extra piece of lead in his stomach.

 _Chronic cough._ Sam _had_ been coughing lately.

 _Coughing up blood._ Well, damn. No wonder Sam had been afraid to tell him. If he had been reliving symptoms he'd had during the Trials, he must've been pretty freaked out.

 _Shortness of breath. Chest pain._ Dean hadn't noticed either of these. But, if he thought more about it… they'd been on a hunt recently, and Sam had gotten knocked in the chest. It wasn't a very hard hit - both of them had taken many worse hits before - but it had taken Sam out for a couple of minutes. He'd had trouble regaining his breath.

 _Weight loss. Fatigue._

Dean shut the laptop and returned to Sam's duffel, digging through his laptop case. Usually, they respected each other's privacy, but at the moment Dean felt that Sam had breached this privilege and there was nothing stopping him from finding what he was looking for.

He felt them, finally, and pulled the papers that the doctor had given Sam into the moonlight. He pulled them close to his face to read them without having to turn on a light, and with every word the lead in his stomach seemed to get heavier.

* * *

Sam woke up the next day with a sense of dread, and it took him a moment to remember that he'd spilled to Dean. Somehow, it made it a hundred times worse. He could feel Dean looking at him last night like he was weak, and more than anything he hated the feeling of being weak.

Now that Dean knew about the condition, he was determined to keep it minimal. There was no reason for Dean to know how bad it had gotten.

Every time they went on a hunt, his chest hurt like a bitch for the next day. Running especially was painful, and he was so winded by the time he'd finished that every heavy breath in made him wince in pain.

The doctor had given him a list of things to do. Return every four months for a vaccine, take a pill every day, and do physical therapy exercises every day. He'd done a decent job of following those orders.

The doctor had also told him to get plenty of sleep and rest. Sam admittedly hadn't followed those orders. But, in his defense, he reasoned with himself - there was no way that he could have gotten rest, unless he'd told Dean. And until now, he'd promised himself he wouldn't tell Dean and burden his brother with yet another thing to worry about.

 _ **Four weeks later**_

"Hey," Sam said when Dean walked into their motel room with two beers in hand. He accepted the one Dean handed him. "So, I was sorting through local stories, and a couple of towns over there's what looks like a gnome nest."

"Gnomes. Pointy hats, eyes bulging?" Dean confirmed.

"Well, they have sharp claws, too. Apparently, they've been attacking the locals. We should go check it out."

Dean took a sip of his beer, leaning against the counter of the motel table. "How do we kill them?"

"I think iron works," Sam said slowly, scanning the page. "We should decapitate them just to be sure. The lore's a bit sketchy."

"Alright. Let's go gank those sons of bitches," Dean said, picking up his gun and reloading it with ammo.

They were still taking on hunts. Though they'd found a way to open up the rift again, it would be another two weeks before Cas returned to help them (Cas was off in some remote forest attempting to get the ingredient necessary to open the rift). For the time being, it seemed a good idea to do what they did best and take down some monsters.

Twenty minutes later, they pulled in to the back of an abandoned house. The shutters were half-dangling from the house, the porch had collapsed in on itself, and the paint had peeled so much that the original color was unrecognizable. Sam followed Dean to the trunk, where he grabbed his gun and a machete.

"How many are there?" Dean asked, swinging the trunk closed and walking alongside Sam in the warm morning sunshine to the house.

Sam shrugged. "Ten to twelve, I'd guess. They should be easy to taken down, as long as they don't get the drop on you."

Dean nodded. "You take upstairs, I take downstairs?"

"Alright," Sam said, and pushed on the door; it swung open easily. They poised their guns, expecting gnomes to come rushing out at them, but when nothing came they crept inside, Dean slightly in front of Sam.

Sam turned and went up the stairs as Dean continued into the kitchen. Every step underneath him creaked loudly, and he winced.

 _So much for the element of surprise._

He entered the first bedroom, shining his flashlight in the dark corners of the room. Dust was floating in the air in the beam of his flashlight and he could feel the sticky tangles of cobwebs on his face as he went through the doorway. Wiping his face, he carefully walked across the room and to the closet. Gun at the ready, he turned the knob, and opened up the closet door. The instant that the door was open, something came flying out at him, and it took him a moment to process that he'd found a gnome.

He wrestled with it, keeping its claws away from him, when suddenly the sensation of more gnomes surrounding him made him realize he hadn't just found one gnome; he'd found the heart of the nest.

"DEAN!" he shouted, firing bullets at the gnomes as they attacked him. He stood violently, bucking to get them off and feeling their claws pierce through his shirt.

There were more than ten to twelve, that was for sure. Sam couldn't see anything except for gnomes, and he desperately sprinted away to get away and find a clearer shot. They pursued him, and he found himself running backwards while firing bullets at the creatures. They weren't too fast, fortunately, and then he heard Dean's approaching footsteps.

Together, they fired at the gnomes until every last one had dropped dead to the floor. The house was once more filled with silence as they lowered the guns. Sam could feel the warm trickle of blood on his shirt, and he looked down to see how bad it was.

His flannel had been shredded by the sharp claws of the gnomes, and the skin underneath was flayed and torn. It was relatively shallow, at least, but Sam could already tell that a few of the cuts would need stitches.

"That's going to need stitches," Dean observed, speaking Sam's thoughts. "Let's go back to the motel and I can patch it up."

The moment the words had left his mouth, there was a sudden creak from the bedroom that Sam had found the gnomes in. Too heavy to be the wind, too heavy to be another gnome.

Dean raised his gun again and Sam followed suit, waiting for whatever was about to come through the doorway.

"I thought you said it was just gnomes," Dean whispered to Sam.

"I did!"

"Well, whatever the hell that is, it's not a gnome…" Dean's voice trailed off as an ugly, fat looking gnome came through the doorway. At least, it looked like a gnome, except it was several feet taller and much stronger looking.

Sam started to shoot it but to no prevail; instead, the gnome roared angrily and began to sprint towards them.

"Shit!" Dean yelled, firing his own gun but nothing happened, so they both pulled out their machetes. Sam hacked at the neck of the weirdly large gnome as it came running towards them and was knocked to his feet. The skin of the gnome was so thick that the knife couldn't penetrate it, he realized.

Thick skin. Long legs. Resembled a gnome.

"Dean, it's a goblin!" Sam yelled, fighting to get the goblin off of him while Dean hacked mercilessly at its neck. "We need fire!"

He saw Dean's eyes widen and Sam yelled out as the goblin slashed at his already open wounds. Dean tackled the goblin to the floor and Sam scrambled to his feet, pulling Dean up with him as the goblin attempted to flip back onto its feet.

"Go!" Sam yelled, and they tumbled over themselves running to the stairs. The heavy footfalls of the goblin pursued them as they ran out of the house, and one quick glance over his shoulder told Sam that the goblin wasn't more than ten feet behind.

"I'll distract him, you get the flamethrower!" Sam shouted over the wind roaring in their ears as they sprinted to the Impala. Sam came to a stop and whirled around, diving towards the goblin to allow Dean time to get to the flamethrower. He heard the squeak of the trunk being opened as he threw punch after punch at the goblin's ugly face.

His breath hitched in his throat suddenly, and it was a sensation he'd felt many times as of late but never this strongly. He coughed, seeing blood spray on the goblin's face.

The goblin seemed to sense his moment of weakness and fought back, clawing at Sam's face suddenly which was unprotected. Sam cried out as the claws slashed across his cheek; if he'd leaned forward a centimeter more it would have nailed him across his entire face. Sam fell backwards, wheezing as he tried to get his breath back, but it was no use. The goblin leapt on top of him and began to butcher his abdomen, claws shredding his jacket.

A sudden rush of warmth above Sam made him momentarily stop coughing. Flames were licking the goblin's head and he watched it in fascination before realizing he was pinned beneath the goblin.

Before he could have time to try to scramble out from underneath it, Dean's strong hands gripped his shoulders and pulled him away and against the Impala.

"Sammy!" he could hear Dean saying, but he couldn't answer; his breaths were heaving wildly and he struggled to get oxygen into his lungs.

This wasn't the first time he'd had trouble breathing. But this was the first time that he couldn't get his breath back. Sam tried to draw in a breath only to feel a deep rattle in his chest and he began to panic, coughing more violently.

"Hey, hey! Sam, calm down - follow my lead. Sam! Look at me!"

Sam moved his gaze to his brother's concerned face, wheezing.

"Alright. Deep breath in, deep breath out."

In. Out. It seemed so easy. Sam tried to follow Dean's actions, but this wasn't a panic attack; he couldn't breathe. His head was beginning to spin and he grasped at Dean out of fear, something he hadn't done in a long time.

"Sam!" Dean called loudly, but black was beginning to creep into Sam's vision. Fuzzy spots danced in front of his eyes and the noises around him were beginning to muffle, accompanied by a high pitched ringing. His chest heaved again and out shot a massive clump of blood and mucus onto the dirt.

Sweet air rushed into his lungs, and Sam breathed in deeply, feeling his heart rate settle. He leaned against the car, closing his eyes and taking in breaths with relief.

"Sammy! Answer me, dammit!"

Sam opened his eyes. "I'm… I'm fine," he rasped, still gulping the air. "I'm good."

"Like hell you are!" Dean said violently, still gripping Sam's shoulders. "What the hell was that?!"

Sam avoided his brother's eyes. "I just needed to catch my breath," he said, and even to himself his response was ridiculous.

"No. Whatever's going on with you, whatever the bronchiectasis entails, this shouldn't be happening. Let's go. I'll stitch you up."

Sam felt his hand to his chest and it came away with warm blood. "Ow."

"Yeah. Come on." Dean stood up, and after looking at Sam for a moment, offered a hand. Sam gripped it and struggled to his feet, a feat that was much more difficult than he hoped he let on. He coughed again, more blood coming up, and worked his way to the passenger seat of the car.

* * *

Dean had no intentions of returning to the motel. Between Sam's cuts on his chest, which were shredded badly and certainly needed medical attention, and the breathing problem he'd just had, they were seeing a doctor.

Even if he had to drag Sam's sickly ass into the building, he was making sure that his little brother got medical attention.

Of course, Sam would object. Fortunately, his brother's eyes were shut, and Dean doubted that he'd notice they weren't going back to the motel room.

He pulled into the parking lot of the urgent care doctor's office in the town they were staying at, easing Baby in as gently as possible so as to not disturb Sam. He'd already planned a cover story: Sam had a rough encounter with a local bear (there had been so many gnome attacks in this town that had been declared bear attacks that Dean doubted they wouldn't believe him), and the attack had caused his bronchiectasis to act up. He'd get the doctors to stitch up Sam, then give him proper treatment for Sam's weird-ass lung condition.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean said once he'd shut off the ignition. Sam opened his eyes and opened up the door; for the first time, Dean saw how _ill_ his brother looked.

He led Sam towards the door and it was only when they were ten feet from entering when Sam realized where they were.

"No way!" he said, immediately turning around. "There's no way in hell I'm going to get seen by a doctor."

"Don't be a bitch. You're going in, and that's final," Dean said, feeling his big brother duties emerge out of instinct.

"I'll stitch them myself," Sam protested. "Dean, we've treated stuff like this hundreds of times-"

"I want the doctor to look at your lungs again," Dean said bluntly. He lowered his voice. "Even if I have to knock you out right here in the parking lot and drag you in, I'll do that. And I'm stronger than you right now, so it wouldn't be very difficult," he added, both as a threat and a stab to Sam's ego. It worked, he noted with satisfaction, as Sam's jaw twitched and he reluctantly followed Dean into the doctor's office.

The secretary took one look at Sam's bleeding chest and abdomen and called the doctor. It didn't take long for her to be ushering them into a room. Sam could feel Dean hovering right next to him in case he were to collapse as they walked to the room, and it pissed him off but he didn't say anything.

"What happened here?" the doctor asked calmly, laying Sam down onto the table and taking out the thread and needle. "Another bear attack?"

"We were hiking," Dean invented, "out in the woods behind town. Sammy - my brother - and I were stopping for water when a huge bear came up from behind us. I got lucky. Sam, on the other hand…"

He spared a glance at Sam, who was watching Dean closely. Listening intently, perhaps, in case they were asked questions and they needed their stories to match.

"Well, we ran, obviously, but Sam has bronchiectasis and he had an attack. It was much worse than usual, so I was wondering if you could take a look at his lungs too once he's stitched up," Dean said as politely as possible. "He couldn't breathe for nearly a full minute. It wasn't until he coughed up blood that he could breathe again."

Sam was now glaring at Dean, his expression obviously reading "Thanks for sparing the details, dick", but Dean didn't care.

The doctor numbed Sam's chest, and Dean could see his brother visibly relax with the numbing.

"How long have you had bronchiectasis?" the doctor asked, skillfully weaving the needle in and out of the torn skin. Sam was paling, Dean could see it, so he answered for his brother.

"A couple of months since he was diagnosed," Dean said, "but it's gotten bad, so he's probably had it for longer."

Sam was definitely glaring at him now with one of his pissiest expressions. Dean ignored him.

"I was hoping he could have another x-ray, and maybe some stronger medication? It's really doing a number on him," he added, smirking at Sam's irritated reaction to his words.

"If he had trouble breathing for an entire minute, then I'd definitely like to take a look at those lungs," the doctor agreed. "Sam, how are you doing?"

"Good," Sam replied through clenched teeth. "Had worse."

"Almost done. You're lucky; these weren't as deep as they could have been," the doctor said, setting the needle down and putting a few butterfly bandages across the rogue scratches.

"So what about his lungs?" Dean asked.

The doctor pulled a stethoscope off of the wall. "I'd like to have a listen first," he said. "Sam, can you sit up for me?"

Sam carefully sat up, wrinkling his nose at the pain that likely came with sitting up. Dean watched from his chair in the corner, fully aware that his brother was annoyed that he was still there.

"The stitches should hold well, but you should take it easy for the next few weeks," the doctor added. "That means no more hiking. I wouldn't recommend twisting very much either; turn around if you need to look behind you and bend with your legs, not your stomach, if you need to pick something up."

Sam nodded. The doctor placed his stethoscope on Sam's chest and had him breathe several times, then on his back.

"There's definitely blockage in there," the doctor confirmed, removing the stethoscope. "I'm going to run some pulmonary function tests, Sam."

Sam's eyes met Dean for a brief second before he returned to the doctor's gaze. "Alright. Yeah," he agreed.

The doctor had Sam breathe into a tube (which definitely made Dean uncomfortable, seeing his brother using a machine like that) to measure how quickly his breaths could go, and how deeply. He measured Sam's lung volume, diffusion capacity, and a whole list of other things that Dean couldn't have remembered if he tried.

"Here's my opinion," the doctor said thirty minutes later, returning to their room with graphs. "Sam, if we had caught this sooner, then it wouldn't be nearly as damaged, but your lungs have been exposed to what seems to be vigorous exercise and impact. Are you generally active?"

Again, Sam's eyes flickered to Dean. "Yeah, my brother and I do a lot of hiking."

"I think that's the problem. You said that this was diagnosed a few months ago?"

"Yes."

"Have you been participating in strenuous activities since then?" the doctor asked, scribbling on the clipboard. "Or have you been getting rest alongside the physical therapy."

"Well, I mean… I've been moving a bit," Sam said, straightening slightly.

"There's the problem. Your lungs have been suffering from the excessive movement, and I'm afraid you've done quite a number on them. The passage to your lungs has been widened, thus allowing bacteria to enter easily."

"What should he be doing? Alongside the pills and vaccines?" Dean interrupted, leaning forward.

"Rest. Like I said before, no more hiking. Your lungs need a chance to recover, so I'd recommend taking it easy for the next week before doing even simple activities like vacuuming or washing the dishes again. Right now, your lungs are extremely fragile after what seems to be a collapse in your breathing after the bear encounter. Drink plenty of fluids, get plenty of sleep, and after a week you can start returning to normal activities, so long as they don't include any exercise or excessive movement. Otherwise, you could permanently injure your breathing, and more advanced measure will need to be taken to assist your lungs."

Dean stood. "Alright. Anything else? Or are we good to go?"

The doctor put his clipboard down. "I'd say that's it. Don't skip any meals, drink water, get sleep. You're prone to infection, because the passage to your lungs is so open at the moment, so make sure you wash your hands often, avoid crowds, and eat well. That means no sodas and burgers. Even a low-grade fever could be detrimental at the moment, until your immune system can build again as your lungs improve. You need your immune system as strong as it can be."

Dean snorted. "The food won't be a problem. He's practically a rabbit as it is."

Sam threw Dean a dirty look as he carefully stood up, thanked the doctor, and followed Dean out of the door to exit the hospital.

* * *

Sam woke up when he felt the Impala's engine shut off. He lifted his head up, rubbing a kink out of his neck from the position he'd been sleeping in. They were back at the bunker, and it was dark out.

"How long was I out?" he asked, yawning and rubbing his eyes to get the blur out of them.

"Seven hours," Dean said, throwing the car door open and getting out slowly. "Figured we'd just drive straight back. Didn't feel like paying for another motel.

"I could've driven!" Sam said, guilt and anger immediately wracking him. "Dean, you could've fallen asleep at the wheel!"

"I was fine," Dean snapped, brushing it off. "But I do want to go to bed, so let's get a move on." He waited for Sam to slowly get out of the car.

Sam moved as quickly as possible, but he could feel his chest stabbing with pain with every movement. It was as though the lack of ability to breathe he'd had with the goblin on top of him had taken a final toll on his already unstable lungs, and he struggled for breath after standing. Dean seemed to notice his labored breathing and instantly softened.

"You alright?"

"I'm fine," Sam responded automatically, stretching once he was out of the car. That wasn't a good idea; the stitches on his abdomen cried out in protest and his hands immediately flew down to them.

"Did you take your medicine?" Dean asked, narrowing his eyes.

Sam bit his lip. "No. Not yet."

"Well, take it as soon as we get inside," Dean commanded forcefully, opening the bunker door and turning on the light. Sam obeyed and poured himself a glass of water to take with the pill. He could hear Dean close behind him, and without looking at his brother he turned to go to the Men of Letters library. He didn't have any interest at the moment in chatting, especially when Dean thought of him as _weak_.

To his relief, Dean didn't pester him, but instead went by him and into the kitchen. Sam found an old dusty book on Mediterranean monsters and settled into the plush armchair, thumbing through the pages with slight interest.

The smell of chicken noodle soup slowly drifted into the library. Sam couldn't help but smile at it, knowing perfectly well what Dean was up to. Chicken noodle soup had always been their go-to as kids when their dad hadn't been back for a long time, or if they'd gotten injured on a hunt. A comfort food, Sam supposed.

He got up and ambled into the kitchen, sliding onto the bar stool while Dean stirred the soup. For a small moment, he thought his brother had made it himself, then he saw the opened can of Campbell's soup by the sink.

The sounds of soup bubbling in the sink were interrupted by Sam's phone ringing. He pulled it out and glanced at the name.

"It's Jody," he said, surprised. Dean turned the heat of the stove down and joined Sam by the counter as Sam accepted the call and put it on speaker.

"Hey, Jody," Sam said. "How are you?"

" _Been better. You two boys doin' okay?"_

"We're doing great," Dean cut in. "What's up?"

" _I hate to ask this of you. I know you've been busy, but there's a werewolf a few towns over from your place, I think. Police are calling it a serial killer, but I don't think it is. Thought you might want to tackle it."_

"Ah, that's tempting, Jody," Dean said, "but we're going to have to opt out. Sam's sick."

" _Oh, I'm sorry, Sam,"_ Jody said. " _Hope you feel better."_

Sam glared at Dean, feeling irritated that Jody now knew. "Thanks, Jody," he said, keeping his voice cheerful.

"I could still help out, though," Dean said, reconsidering. "If it's just one werewolf."

"Dean, you're not going alone," Sam said, exasperated. "I'm fine. I can come."

"There's no way in hell you're coming-"

" _How about I find someone to help you out, Dean? Sam can rest and you don't have to go alone,"_ Jody intervened.

"I don't need rest," Sam began petulantly, but Dean interrupted again.

"That'd be great, Jody. Let me know who you find, and I'll contact them."

" _Alright. Talk to you boys later,"_ Jody said, and after they responded, Sam closed the phone call.

"I can come on a damn werewolf hunt, Dean," he said, trying to keep his voice level. "I don't need to run or anything, all I need are silver bullets and I'm good to help."

"Okay. So when a werewolf comes sprinting after you, what are you going to do? Choke over your own breath at it?" Dean replied. "No way, dude. You're on the bench for the next few weeks."

Sam steeled himself. "I get that you're trying to help me. I really do. But you don't need to act like my parent. I can make choices on my own."

"You'd be making stupid choices, Sam. Come on! The doctor just said that you need rest, and sleep, and food. That does not mean 'hunting a werewolf'. Got it?"

"No. I'm fine with resting, but I don't need you to tell me to do it. Got it?" Sam said, throwing Dean's words back at him. He wasn't sure why he was being so argumentative with his brother, but at the moment the fact that he had to sit out on an easy hunt was pissing him off.

"How about I'll let you do all of the research?" Dean offered. "You can get your nerd on while I do the hunting. Deal?"

Sam didn't answer, but it did sound better than nothing. Research _was_ enjoyable. He reached for his laptop, which he usually kept on the table, but remembered he'd left it in the car.

"I'll be right back," he muttered, swinging his legs off of the chair.

"Where are you going?" Dean inquired instantly. Sam exhaled, trying to not let Dean's protectiveness bother him.

"Just to the car, to grab my laptop. Not everything is a huge deal," Sam said, stalking away from the table.

"I'll get it," Dean said immediately. "You man the soup."

"I can get my laptop," Sam argued, seeing through Dean instantly. "I'm not an invalid. I can still walk."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "You had to go to the hospital today because you couldn't breathe. You have stitches because you were clawed up by a gnome. You're _not_ moving around the whole place."

Sam rubbed his hands over his face. "Dammit, Dean! Stop treating me like I'm made of glass!"

"I'll stop treating you like glass if you can sit your ass down and rest!" Dean fought back. He stared Sam down, waiting for him to move. "You know what this reminds me of?"  
Sam didn't answer.

"Remember when you broke your leg on that ghost hunt back in Burlington? You were fifteen?"

Again, Sam didn't answer, understanding perfectly well what Dean was about to say.

"You were a bitch that whole week that you had to rest. I remember you nearly drove Dad nuts. You're not a teenager anymore, Sam, so cut the crap. I'm getting your laptop." Dean walked away from Sam, leaving him standing there scowling.

He watched Dean's retreating back for a moment before whirling around and returning to his bedroom.

Pissed as he was, it hadn't been a good idea to shout that much and even walk that quickly back to his room. He could feel it in his breaths; they were shortening and more labored. He breathed in deeply, attempting to get airflow in, and could feel panic coming on as no air came.

 _Breathe, Sam. It's not that difficult,_ he told himself, but it was like standing in a hot, steamy shower with little air pockets. No matter how much breath he drew in, there was hardly any oxygen making it down to his lungs.

 _Oh, come on. Not again_ , he thought desperately as his head began to feel light. He coughed violently, hoping that the blood and mucus would come up and clear his airway.

"Sam?"

Suddenly Dean was next to him, offering words of reassurance as he struggled to get air. He coughed again, so hard that he thought his throat might tear, and nearly collapsed with relief when the blood came up and he could feel air coming back in.

* * *

"I'm leaving for the hunt," Dean told Sam the next day, swinging the Impala's keys in his hand. "You good?"

"Fine," Sam repeated.

"Don't forget your meds."

"I won't."

"There's leftover chicken noodle soup for lunch."

"Dean, I'm an adult. I can take care of myself," Sam said stubbornly, holding his hand onto the door to close it. "Go. Have fun."

Dean watched Sam closely for a moment, noting the dark bags under his eyes, then nodded. "Don't have too much fun without me." With that, he got into the Impala and turned the car on.

He was meeting Claire and Donna at the local diner. Jody had called them both, deciding that she'd rather have more than two on the case, and Dean wasn't complaining. He hadn't seen Claire and Donna since they'd saved him and Sam from The Bad Place, and that had been months ago.

"Hey, stranger," Dean said, smiling, when he saw Claire at a nearby table. "How're you doing, kid?"

"Pretty good," Claire responded, sliding in a bit. "Donna's getting here in thirty minutes. She just texted me."

"This hunt'll be easy, working with two of the best hunters I know," Dean said, looking down at the menu and feeling more positive than he had in weeks. "This'll go well."

"So, we got a werewolf, Jody said?"

"Yeah," Dean confirmed. "Sam looked into it last night. It's a kidnapping werewolf, apparently. There are twenty-three different people missing from this town and the surrounding towns, all within five months. From what Sam could tell, the werewolf likes to make his food last. Chews on their flesh for several days before eating their heart and killing them."

"Ew."

"Tell me about it," Dean agreed.

* * *

Sam was reading in bed when his phone alert went off. He didn't recognize the number and opened it, scanning the message.

 **Need help borrowing someone's phone not much time come 34 Lebanon St**

Within an instant Sam was out of bed, throwing his jacket on. He took off down the hall, grabbing his gun and the silver bullets as quickly as possible.

"Come on," Sam growled as he fumbled for the keys for the Men of Letters car.

Of course, it could be a trap, a voice whispered in the back of his mind as he hurried out of the bunker and to the car. It might not be Dean.

But too many times had they been in trouble on hunts for it to seem unrealistic that Dean was actually in trouble. Already a number of scenarios were running through his mind, between Dean lying in a pool of his own blood on the floor or having been bitten by the werewolf.

34 Lebanon Street was only ten minutes away. Sam drove at least thirty higher than the speed limit, and when he arrived he got out of the car quickly, aiming his gun for anything that moved.

"Dean?" he called cautiously to the empty building.

Again, the voice in the back of his mind reminded him that it could be a trap. Sam spun around, checking behind him, and pulled out his phone to try calling Dean.

 _I should've tried calling him on the way here,_ Sam realized, holding the phone to his ear and praying that his brother would answer. _Idiot. Terrible mistake._

"Hello?" came Dean's voice, calm and clearly not in trouble.

Well, shit.

Sam immediately turned around, hurrying back towards the car. "Dean? Something's out for us. I just got a text from-"

He grunted, something heavy having slammed into his head. He fell to his knees, the phone dropping from his hand.

"34-" he tried to shout into the phone, before the heavy object hit his head again and spots danced before his eyes. A man standing above him was the last thing he saw through darkened, blurry vision before the tunnel swallowed him altogether.

* * *

Dean opened up Sam's GPS faster than he ever had before. The second that the call had abruptly ended, the moment that he was aware his little brother - his _sick_ little brother - had been ambushed, he'd located Sam's phone.

"I know where the werewolf is," Dean told Donna and Claire, closing his phone. "Let's go."

"Wait - how?" Donna asked, hurrying alongside him.

"Sam! He's been taken," Dean snapped, lengthening his stride. "We've got to move. Now!" he barked, getting into the front seat of Baby and turning the engine on. "The werewolf's not in this town anymore, he's in Lebanon."

"How far are we from Lebanon?" Claire asked, buckling her seat belt as Dean drove the Impala wildly out of the parking lot.

"A bit over an hour," Dean said, gritting his teeth. "If I drive quickly."

* * *

Sam woke up to darkness. His breaths were coming in shaky wheezes, and it his first thought was that he didn't want his airway to close again.

He was laying on cement. Cold, hard cement. There was a dripping sound in the background, along with the snuffles of someone crying.

"Hello?" Sam asked, and he picked up on the distinct acoustics of his voice - it sounded like he was underground. That would explain the lack of lighting.

"Hello?" someone responded, a woman. "Help me! Please, help me!"

"Uh, okay, okay - just calm down," Sam said, rubbing the back of his head where he could feel a large lump. Whatever had nailed the back of his head hadn't been very soft. "What's your name?"

"Angela," came the soft reply. "Help me."

"What's… what's going on here?" Sam asked, feeling dazed. His fingers grazed over the welt on the back of his head. "Ow."

"There's a man. He's hurting us," Angela whispered. "There's blood. So much blood. I'm bleeding."

"Man?" Sam said, closing his eyes to aleve the pain. He breathed in heavily, barely able to get enough oxygen to be satisfied. "What man?"

"Flesh-eater," the woman said with a whimper. "He comes and cuts off skin, and eats it. There was another girl before me. He ate her, and then killed her, and now he's started on me. It hurts."

"You're going to be okay," Sam said automatically, but he doubted that was true. The most he could hope for was that Dean was able to find him with the GPS, assuming that his kidnapper hadn't deactivated it already.

"He's coming," the woman suddenly whispered. The sound of heavy footsteps was followed by the squeak of a metal door, and it was only then that Sam realized he was locked in a cage. The woman's screams echoed around them along with the terrible sounds of the man chewing food - or what was the woman's flesh. The screams stopped after five minutes, and were replaced with the crying of the woman as the footsteps receded.

"Are you okay?" Sam whispered when the silence had resumed.

"N-no!" the woman choked out.

Sam groped the floor, feeling for anything that could work as a lock pick. All he found was cement. He coughed suddenly, and with the cough his airway was blocked. His breath caught in his throat and he gasped, like a fish out of water, gripping at his throat while coughing heavily. Yet when he tried to draw in another breath, nothing came in.

* * *

"Sir, you're going to have to take the detour. The bridge is out," the nasally man said into Dean's window as he came to an abrupt stop at the sight of construction.

"Let me through, dammit! It's important!" Dean yelled at the scrawny man.

"I'm sorry, that's really not possible," the man said. "You'll have to go around the other way."

Dean shifted the car into reverse and slammed on the gas, spinning the car around dangerously fast.

"Dean, slow down," Donna finally shouted from the backseat.

"Sam's been attacked!" Dean retorted, not easing on the gas at all.

"You're going to get us killed, and we're no good to your brother then!" Donna said, and rested her hand on his shoulder. "We're going to save Sam. This werewolf waits days before killing, doesn't he? Sam's only been gone for about an hour."

Dean gritted his teeth and slowed down. "Donna, he's sick. He might not be breathing-"

He stopped short, the image of Sam spasming in some psycho werewolf's basement because he couldn't draw in a breath too disturbing to think about.

* * *

It took Sam a full minute to regain his breath. He curled into a ball on the cement floor, shivering. He could feel his heart racing and tried to calm himself.

 _This has happened before, stupid. Don't fall to pieces._

It was like drowning. Drowning for a full minute before being able to reach the surface.

He wasn't sure how long he was on the floor, but it hadn't been long before the sound of a car screeching above him caught his attention. There was no doubt that it was the Impala; the sound was so familiar to him.

He immediately pounded on the top of the cage. "DEAN! I'm down here!"

The shout made him cough again and he bent over, hacking for what seemed ten minutes. The sound of gunfire made him freeze in anticipation, and he didn't dare move until the bullets stopped.

"Dean?" he called again, quieter this time.

"Sam! Where are you?"

Relief flooded through Sam's body. "I'm down here-" he began to shout back, but the yell did not cooperate with his already damaged lungs, and he fell to the ground with coughs.

Sam could feel his eyes watering, and could hear Dean shouting and asking where exactly he was, but all that was going through his mind was _I can't breathe I can't breathe I can't breathe I can't breathe I can't breathe I can't breathe I can't breathe I can't breathe I can't breathe-_

Until sunlight streamed in. Sam squinted, coughing as spots began swirling in his vision again. He spat a wad of blood out and felt air come back in.

 _Oh, God. Please don't let that happen again_ , Sam prayed, his eyes burning with the exertion.

"Sam!"

Sam hadn't noticed until then that Dean had bust in through what seemed to be a trapdoor and was running over to him. He nimbly picked the lock and crouched at Sam's side.

"You alright? Did he hurt you?" Dean demanded, making eye contact with Sam.

"No… I'm fine, I'm fine," Sam said, repeating himself almost to make sure.

"You sure?"

"The woman over there," Sam managed. "She needs help." He struggled to his feet, swaying. "Ow."

"What is it?" Dean asked him.

"Head. Knocked me out," Sam said, clutching the wall so as to not fall. "Oh. Hi… Claire?"

"Yep," Claire said, having just come through the trapdoor. "Donna and I will help that woman, Dean. You can get Sam out."

"Thanks," Dean told her, and gripped Sam's arm. "Let's get out of here."

"I can walk!" Sam protested, stumbling forward. "I wasn't here for long, and he didn't even hurt me-"

"Yeah, but he gave you a hell of a concussion, I'm guessing."

Sam didn't argue with that; his vision was beginning to double and a headache was pounding in his temples. He let Dean lead him out of the trapdoor and into the sun where the Impala was waiting, sun glinting off of the black hood of the car.

* * *

It only took six hours for their lives to go to crap again.

They'd gotten back to the bunker and had a celebratory lunch; the werewolf was dead, and they'd gotten the other woman out of the underground lair and to a hospital. Sam was adamant that he was fine aside from the concussion, but Dean wasn't quite ready to let him return to normal activities.

They were sitting around the counter; him, Sam, and Claire. Donna was working by the oven making a casserole, something Dean was greatly looking forward to - food that wasn't made by him or microwaveable.

"Meds, Sam," Dean said suddenly, glancing at his watch. One look at his brother told him that Sam wasn't pleased with the mothering, but he ignored the look and slid the bottle of pills over.

"How long does it take for your lungs to improve?" Claire asked, leaning forward.

"In about a week I'll start hunting again," Sam said, averting Dean's gaze. Until his brother stopped coughing up mucus and started to be able to run without having a no-breathing fit, Dean wasn't letting Sam hunt a spider.

"I could stick around and help out for a bit," Donna offered from the kitchen.

"Ah, no, that's alright, Donna," Sam responded, smiling. "I'm-"

His answer was cut off by a sudden fit of coughing. Donna stopped what she was doing to come to his side, and despite his concern for his brother, Dean couldn't help but smirk at Sam, whose cheeks were turning red.

"I'm fine," Sam managed as soon as he was done coughing.

"That's a terrible cough!" Donna said, frowning. "I can stay and help out longer-"

"No, really," Sam said, a bit more strongly. "I'm good. We're good." He forced a smile. "How's Alex? And Patience?"

"Alex is still working at the doctor's office," Claire answered. "And Patience has started going to school. Neither of them are that into hunting, but they're willing to help out every so often." She looked to Sam suddenly, and her forehead creased. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Sam said again, and Dean noticed the red in his cheeks was still there.

He'd assumed Sam was blushing, but…

"How _are_ you feeling?" Dean asked. "And don't just say _fine_."

"I'm _fine_ , Dean, really," Sam assured him.

"Then let me feel your temperature," Dean said, perfectly aware of how mortified Sam would be. Donna and Claire watched the conversation with apparent interest mixed with concern.

"No way - Dean, stop-" Sam said, warning in his eyes. "I said that I'm fine."

"Then you should be fine with me feeling your forehead, dumbass-" Dean started to say, and cleared his throat, glancing at Donna and Claire. "Uh, sorry."

"No worries," Donna responded, looking slightly amused. "Sam, he's right. You don't look so good right now."

"I'm fine, okay?" Sam said firmly. "If I don't feel well, I'll let you know."

"Don't be such a baby," Claire interrupted, getting up quickly and placing her hand against Sam's forehead. Sam pulled away but didn't slap her hand away as Dean knew he would have done if it was Dean's hand.

"You have a fever," Claire confirmed.

"Dammit, Sam, you're supposed to stay healthy," Dean cursed. "How the hell did this happen? Did you pick something up in that werewolf's underground cave?"

"How would I know?" Sam said, embarrassment etched into his face. "It's not my fault, the doctor said that it would be easy to pick up an infection."

"Well, I won't leave until you're better," Donna said, taking the casserole out of the oven. "Do you want some water, Sam?"

"I can get it-"

"No, no, I can," Donna said, moving to the fridge for a bottle.

Sam's expression looked very sullen.

* * *

Claire was fascinated by Sam and Dean. Sure, Sam was denying that he wasn't feeling well, and was refusing everything that Dean was trying to help him with, but the trust between the two brothers was obviously there. Sam clearly disliked the attention Dean was giving him, but it wasn't because he was wary of it… he'd grown up with it.

Dean's concern for his brother was equally amazing to watch. Claire hadn't ever seen someone be so caring towards a sibling, and she found herself wishing she and Alex had developed a bond like that.

They went to bed near midnight, Dean forcing Sam to take his medicine again.

On sudden impulse, Claire pulled out her phone, and texted Alex.

 _Hey. If you're not up to anything, want to go out to lunch with Jody tomorrow?_

Alex's response came quickly.

 _I'd love to._

Claire laid back onto her pillow, smiling. The world would be a better place, she decided, if more people had a bond like Sam and Dean's.

 _So. Abrupt, corny, stupid, terrible ending. But it was by far the longest chapter I've ever written and I needed it to end, and a couple paragraphs ago there was no end in sight. So I improvised. Also, this was so long that I didn't proofread (oops) so forgive me for the typos that were more than likely in here._

 _Hope you enjoyed it, and I hope it satisfied your prompt, Idreamofivan! Thanks!_


	12. Medicine

_This prompt is from VegasGranny:_

 _How about a story with Sam taking the wrong medicine for some reason and "going down the rabbit hole" and Dean needing to stay vigilant as Sam keeps falling over things, opening over-full closets, falling into pool/pond/fountain, walking into things, etc._

 _I absolutely love this prompt! I'm 16 and so I don't have a good idea of what medicines / drugs would do… having never experienced this kind of scenario (with myself or- others), the details might not be very accurate. I'm really sorry if it's way off, but at the very least I hope it's entertaining!_

 _This is set in early season five, after 5x11 Abandon All Hope._

* * *

Sam's back felt like it'd been stabbed - again.

They'd gone to a house in the suburbs of Virginia to get rid of a particularly violent poltergeist, and he'd been thrown into multiple sharp objects, including a coffee table, a door (who knew doorknobs could be so lethal?), and a wardrobe. And after having his back take the brunt of those attacks, it was throbbing like a bitch.

He was lying awake in bed in their latest motel room. No matter what position he was in, it felt like there was a stiff thorn in his back. He glanced at the clock, discouraged to see that it was already three in the morning and he'd gotten only two hours of sleep at the most.

It was terrible sleeping conditions, let alone the fact that his back was aching so much. The motel was on the side of a highway, and the sound of trucks roaring by made Sam's eyes open every half a minute. The room was uncomfortably cold since the heater was broken, not to mention they couldn't get the heater to stop making a weird clicking sound. Dean was snoring in the other bed over, and that certainly didn't help.

Sam rolled over, hoping that the pain in his back would cease, but it didn't. The bed squeaked loudly as he rolled back onto his other side, deciding that it was slightly less painful.

"Hey, princess and the pea. Stop making the bed creak," Dean's muffled voice said from the other bed over. Sam hadn't even noticed that the snores had stopped, and he instantly stopped moving.

"Sorry," he offered lamely, sighing as the clock changed from 3:02 to 3:03.

Another minute passed. 3:04. Another truck roared by. The sound of the broken heater chittered away.

"You know," Dean's sleepy voice said suddenly, "there's some ibuprofen in my duffel."

Sam contemplated the offer; he was almost too lazy to get out of bed and into the cold room to search for the medicine. But the sharp pains in his back won over, so he climbed out of bed, shivering in the cold of the motel room.

He made his way to the duffel bag in the dark, stumbling over one of Dean's shoes that had been left out in the middle of the room.

He groped in the bag, feeling for the familiar bottle of pills. After touching something that felt suspiciously like an old piece of bread, he finally felt the bottle, and pulled it out as quietly as possible. Dean's snores had resumed, and filled the room with the sound.

He took two of the pills and popped them into his mouth, swallowing them with a sip of his water on his nightstand. After putting the cover of the pills back onto the bottle, he slid back into bed, laying awake and staring at the ceiling.

* * *

Dean woke up to a crash by the door. His instinct reaction was to grab his gun, which he kept under his pillow, and aim it towards the unknown sound. He immediately lowered the gun upon seeing it was Sam, who was sprawled on the floor with a knocked over chair next to him. Sam sat up, unharmed, and Dean would have found it hilarious that his brother had tripped over a chair if he wasn't so annoyed that it had woken him up.

"Dude, thanks for being quiet," Dean said grumpily, leaning back. He turned his head slightly to see the clock. 6:27. "You couldn't have waited until at least 7:00?"

"Sorry," Sam said from the floor. "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to."

Dean found himself irritated by his brother's tone. The sarcasm was clear in Sam's voice; the apology was overly sincere.

"Did you get coffee at least?" Dean asked, pulling himself into a sitting position.

"Coffee… coffee," Sam repeated slowly, as though feeling the words in his mouth. "Coffee."

Dean scowled. "You didn't, did you?" He threw his legs over the side of the bed and stretched. "Well, we might as well get out of here. Maybe we can get to Wyoming by nightfall and tackle that vamp nest Bobby told us about."

"No, let's stay!" Sam protested. "There's a museum in town. We saw it yesterday."

Dean paused. "You want to go to the museum?" he said incredulously.

Sam nodded vigorously. "We're boring. We never do _anything_ fun. All we do is… run into demons, and ghosts… and… and vamps… and Wyoming's _boring_."

Something was off about Sam's voice. It had that same sincere tone as when he had apologized, but this didn't seem like sarcasm.

"What's goin' on with you?" Dean asked, getting up and throwing a flannel on over his tee shirt. "Were you drinking or something?" But Sam wouldn't have been drinking; it was hard enough to get the kid to loosen up at night, let alone drink something in the morning.

"I had coffee," Sam said, frowning, then his face crumpled. "I'm sorry, I forgot to get you some, I'm so sorry, Dean!" He gripped Dean's shoulder tightly. "I forgot. But I'll make you some now."

He turned around awkwardly to make his way to the coffee maker in the motel room, Dean watching him with a mixture of shock and confusion.

"Are you high?" Dean said, bewildered. "What the hell's going on, Sam?"

Sam didn't answer, but in an almost frantic manner opened the coffee maker to brew a cup for Dean.

 _What the hell did he take?_ Last night, they'd drank maybe two beers and watched television after getting rid of the poltergeist; nothing more.

But then… Dean had a vague memory of sometime in the middle of the night telling Sam to take ibuprofen.

"Did you take the ibuprofen, Sam?" Dean asked, going over to the nightstand and seeing the bottle of pills. His stomach suddenly dropped. "Oh, crap."

"Coffee," Sam said suddenly, whirling around with a cup in his hand. It promptly flew out of his hand and landed almost comically on the floor, spilling everywhere. Sam looked at it as though confused, and then his head flew back upwards, his eyes meeting Dean's quizzically.

Dean went back to his duffel and rummaged through it, finding another bottle of pills.

"Crap," he said again.

He'd picked up some of the "good stuff" the other day; strong medicine in case either of them got extremely hurt and needed some. It wasn't a medicine that he'd gotten at a store, so he'd put it into the empty ibuprofen bottle. On the side, he'd written that it wasn't ibuprofen, but if Sam had taken it in the dark, then there was no way his brother could have known it wasn't ibuprofen he was taking.

"Sam, you took the wrong medicine," Dean said, fighting the urge to laugh as Sam messily started to mop up the spilled coffee with a paper towel. "You feeling okay?"

"My back doesn't hurt anymore," Sam said, but it wasn't just a statement; he said it with enthusiasm and a look of excitement on his face. "Dean, it stopped hurting!"

"That's great," Dean muttered, quickling googling a search on the medicine Sam had taken. He assumed Sam would be fine, but couldn't help the feeling of concern at how it might affect him.

"Well, looks like you're going to be on cloud nine for the next twelve hours," Dean concluded, closing his phone. "Guess we are staying here."

"Can we go to the museum?" Sam asked, his face pinched with hope.

Dean studied his brother. "Not today," he admitted. "Maybe another time."

Sam continued to mop at the floor, even though the most he was doing was pushing the coffee around on the floor with a coffee-soaked paper towel.

"Let me take care of that," Dean said, bending down and grabbing a wad of paper towels. Sam backed up immediately, falling over onto his rear.

"Want help?" said Sam's voice suddenly, inches away from Dean's ear.

Dean exhaled. "Nope. Just hang out in bed, turn on the television."

Of course, Sam did nothing of the sort, and he instead went over to his own duffel bag and began to rummage around in it. Dean glanced up at him, saw that his brother seemed to be in awe of all of his own possessions, and shook his head.

He was just finishing up the spilled mess of coffee when the sudden sound of a gun cocking made him jump up.

"Sam!" he said angrily, plucking the gun out of Sam's hands. "Don't touch the guns, okay?"

Sam frowned. "I'm a… better shot. I'm a better shot. Than you," Sam said, his words spaced out oddly. "On hunts, I'm the better shot."

"Yeah. That doesn't give you the right to have a gun when you're high as a kite," Dean contradicted, shoving the gun deeply back into the duffel and zipping it up.

"I can use a gun, Dean," Sam said, his words thick. He laughed suddenly. "We should have a shooting contest. Bet I'd win."

"I bet you would, too," Dean said, humoring Sam. "How about I get some breakfast?"

"Okay. Bring your gun, though, and call me if anything goes wrong," Sam said, his voice deadly serious. "Got it, Dean?"

"Got it," Dean said, stowing his wallet in his pocket. "You stay here and don't touch _anything_. Just take a nap or something."

Sam bent his knees slightly so that he was at direct eye level with Dean. "You listening to me? If _anything_ goes wrong, call me." Sam's eyes searched out Dean's and again Dean struggled to not laugh.

"Will do," Dean said, nodding seriously.

"Good," Sam said, nodding back. "Good."

Dean grabbed the keys off of the desk and contemplated his brother. "So what are you going to do while I'm gone?"

Sam frowned. "Practice my shooting."

Dean suddenly had a vivid image in his mind of himself returning with breakfast to find that Sam had shot himself in the foot.

"Okay, you're coming, Sasquatch," he grumbled.

Sam's entire face lit up. "With you? To breakfast?"

"Yep. Consider it an honor," Dean said, ushering him out the door and to the Impala.

"I will! I won't forget this," Sam assured Dean, climbing awkwardly into the passenger seat. He buckled himself quickly and leaned forward, as though fascinated by the dashboard. Dean got into the driver's seat, and turned the ignition on.

"Can I drive?" Sam said suddenly, looking eagerly at Dean.

"No way," Dean said firmly, and pulled Baby out of the motel parking lot.

* * *

All of the parking spaces outside of the only decent looking breakfast diner were filled, so Dean parked the Impala down the street a bit. The diner was downtown and a lake was visible from the street; of the many towns he and Sam had been to, this was certainly one of the nicer ones. He got out of the car, glad that Sam seemed to be on the same page and was getting out of the passenger side without any trouble.

"Where are you going?" Dean said, stepping onto the sidewalk; Sam was walking to the back of the car.

"The trunk," Sam said, raising his eyebrows as though it was obvious. "For a hunt."

"We're not on a hunt right now, genius," Dean said, stifling his laughter in his throat. "Come on. We're getting breakfast."

Sam followed him with a somewhat disappointed expression, and he joined Dean, walking a bit clumsily next to him.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked, frowning, when Sam suddenly leaped forward.

"Avoiding the cracks," Sam said, as though it was obvious. "Or we'll break our dead mom's back. You know? Step on a crack, break your mother's back. Or maybe it's your own back, 'cos yesterday I don't think I avoided the cracks. My back hurt last night."

They were nearing the diner, which had a line of people pouring outside of it, when they passed a fountain on the edge of the sidewalk. It was small, but shimmering brilliantly in the early morning sun.

Sam stopped to admire it, grabbing Dean to have him stop as well.

"That's beautiful," Sam observed. "It's like… the fountain of golden sunshine."

Dean snorted, and pulled out his phone, turning on the video. "What did you say it was?" he asked. Sam didn't seem to be aware that he was being recorded.

"It's a fountain of golden sunshine," he said, leaning forward to dip his index finger in the water. "We should eat breakfast here. You and I, sitting on the edge of a… lively town, enjoying breakfast, listening to the trickle of the fountain."

"Alright, Shakespeare," Dean prompted, because he wanted to get in the growing line of people waiting for breakfast. "Let's get a move on." He didn't stop recording the video, though.

Sam wasn't listening; he was turning around to sit on the edge of the fountain. With a sudden look of surprise on his face, he misjudged where the edge of the fountain was and toppled backwards, landing in a sitting position in the water. It splashed noisily and the chuckle of bystanders rippled by.

For one gleeful moment, Dean watched Sam through his phone, already planning blackmail with the video. The next moment, he realized his brother was sitting with a disgruntled expression in a shallow pool of water, and he slipped his phone into his pocket to help him out.

"Smooth move," he said, pulling Sam out. Water dripped heavily from Sam as he climbed out, gripping Dean's shoulder tightly again.

"Do you think people saw?" Sam whispered loudly, his eyes wide. "I'm sorry, Dean, I didn't mean to fall in-"

"People probably saw," Dean confirmed, snorting with laughter, but he dialed it down upon seeing Sam's eyes looking at him with hurt.

"Don't worry," Dean told him. "No one will remember that you fell in. Besides, we'll probably never come to this town again anyway."

"I'm really, really, really, really sorry!"

"Don't worry about it," Dean said, smiling apologetically at a woman who was looking at Sam with distrust. "Let's get breakfast. Come on."

* * *

They made it back to the motel room without any more fiascos; but instead of enjoying the beauties of life like he had at the fountain, Sam's mood had quickly turned belligerent.

"Dean, we can't pay with credit card scams anymore," he insisted, staring Dean down with the kind of expression that was usually reserved for their real fights.

"Okay, then, how about we just starve and sleep in the car every night? Because in case you didn't notice, neither of us have real jobs. And we deserve food and shelter, because we save lives every friggin' day," Dean said, pushing Sam down onto the bed. "Stay here. I'm going to shower."

He made his way to the shower; upon further thinking, he took his duffel bag into the bathroom with him, not trusting Sam to be alone with the guns.

Usually, the morning following a hunt, he liked to spend a solid twenty minutes in the hot water, but he was only ten minutes in with shampoo foaming in his hair when a loud crash resonated outside the room. He shut off the water, listening intently.

"Sam?" he called. "You okay?"

There was no answer.

"Sam!" he yelled again. "Don't make me get out of the shower."

Again, no answer. Grumbling some choice words, Dean wrapped a towel around himself, shaking some of the soap out of his hair.

"Sam, I swear if you're okay, I'm going to kick your doped up ass," he muttered to himself, stepping out of the steamy bathroom. "Sam?"

Sam was on the floor, his foot wrapped up in the cord of the motel's telephone; clearly, he had tripped over it.

"Are you kidding me?" Dean said, spreading his arms wide. "I told you to stay put!"

Instead of looking abashed, Sam laughed. "You're really not intimidating," he said, grinning widely.

"Oh, yeah?" Dean said, feeling High Sam™ beginning to really piss him off. He supposed that it was his fault this had happened in the first place, though.

"Yeah. You're really not," Sam confirmed. "You're not really mad at me. I can tell."

"Try me," Dean said, scowling.

"I mean, you once _sold your soul_ for me. So you're not mad that I… tripped. Tripping. Ha. I'm tripping, Dean. Get it?" Sam grinned up at Dean like he'd just made the world's greatest joke. "Because I tripped on the floor, and also I think I'm _tripping_ right now. You know, like-"

"I get it," Dean interrupted. "Get back on the bed. Try to sleep or something." He helped Sam up and saw a smear of red on the side of his brother's head, a bit underneath a lock of hair.

"What happened?" Dean demanded, pulling Sam's head back to find a bleeding head wound.

"The counter lunged at me and bit my head while I fell," Sam said, laughing again at his own words. "At least, that's what it looked like."

"You moron," Dean said, taking a tissue and dabbing at the blood. It wasn't very deep. He reached into his duffel bag and grabbed a small bandage. Sam squirmed while he tried to put the bandage on, and he had to grip Sam's shoulder to get him to stay still.

"Alright. I'm going to rinse the shampoo out of my hair," Dean said, pointing at his head, "and you're going to sit there."

"Why?"

"Because I said so," Dean said shortly, sitting Sam down.

"You look stupid with soap in your hair," Sam noted.

"Yeah, well you look stupid with your hair in general," Dean retorted, patting Sam's shoulder once before heading back into the bathroom.

* * *

To his relief, when he got back out of the bathroom, Sam was still sitting on the bed.

"Go to sleep," Dean suggested. "You'll feel better when you wake up."

To his surprise, Sam obliged, lying down onto the pillow. "Dean?" he said, looking particularly childish from his position on the bed.

"Yeah?" Dean said after a moment.

"I'm scared."

"Of what?"

"Lucifer. He said I'm going to say yes to him. But, Dean," Sam said, sitting up suddenly and leaning forward so that he was invading what Dean considered his personal space, "I don't want to."

"Yeah, I know," Dean said. "I know you won't say yes, though."

"But what if I _do_? I already screwed up with Lilith," Sam said, tears welling in his eyes.

 _Well, that's great._

High Sam™ was becoming emotional.

"Alright, go to sleep," Dean said, pushing Sam down. "Talk to me when you're done tripping butterflies and ponies."

"Don't leave," Sam said, grabbing Dean's arm. "You're not going anywhere, right?"

"Nowhere. Staying right here in this crappy motel room."

Sam relaxed his grip, and quicker than Dean could have thought possible, he fell asleep.

* * *

It was nearly ten at night before Sam woke up, and the second that he saw his brother rub his head and grimace, Dean felt a weight leave his chest.

"Feel normal?" he confirmed, just in case, standing up and setting his beer down on the table. Sam glowered at him.

"I can't believe you," he said.

"You remember a lot of it?"  
"Yeah, but it's kind of like looking through a foggy lense," he said, standing up and filling a glass of water from the sink. "You couldn't have told me that you put those pills in the ibuprofen container?"

"I labeled it!"

"It was dark!"

"You should've used a flashlight," Dean said, even though he felt guilty. "There's leftover breakfast in the fridge if you're hungry. I'm going to go shower."

He leaned out of the doorway before proceeding into the bathroom. "Don't shoot yourself with the guns," he advised, snorting.

"Shut up, jerk."

"Check your phone, bitch," Dean said, laughing at him and closing the door. About twenty seconds later, he heard Sam's sound of dissatisfaction. He'd sent him the video of him admiring the fountain and then falling into it, and no matter how much Sam begged him, there was no way he was deleting it.

 _This was easily one of the most fun chapters I've ever written._

 _Again, I've no idea what "being high" is like, so I apologize if my interpretation was way off the mark._

 _Thanks to VegasGranny for the prompt!_


	13. Panic

_This prompt is from Super-Hannah-Natural:_

 _Where Dean's still angry with Sam, and Sam's suffering from panic attacks because of the guilt and gets upset after fights with Dean; Dean invites Benny to hunt with them, but when the monster that they're hunting goes after Benny, Sam risks his life to save him and gets hurt badly. Dean then, of course goes all protective mama bear, especially when Sam admits that he'd rather himself die then Dean's "better brother" Benny. Dean also finds out about Sam's panic attacks and there's a lot of fussing and pampering and apologies all around._

 _Thanks for the prompt! :)_

 _This is set in early season eight, sometime after Southern Comfort and A Little Slice of Kevin. Warnings for content regarding panic attacks._

 _It's been awhile since I've watched season 8… so please forgive me for anything about Benny that might be OOC!_

* * *

Dean was pissed at him, Sam could tell.

They were stuck in a small motel room together, unfortunately, so unless he felt like camping out in the bathroom to get away from Dean - which he didn't - he was confined to the same room with him. Going for a walk wasn't an option; they were in northern Minnesota and a cold snap had brought the temperatures to below zero.

"And you know what?" Dean added suddenly, and Sam turned back around to face his brother out of what felt like obligation. He'd thought the fight was over; apparently, it was not.

"What pisses me off the most about this is how I never realized how…" Dean paused, whether for emphasis or to think of a word, Sam wasn't sure. " _Selfish_ you are."

"I'm not-" Sam started to say, but Dean held up a forceful hand.

"No. You listen to me. I was fighting for my life _every day_ in that hellhole, with Benny by my side the whole time, while _you_ sat on your ass and shacked it up with that girl. I don't care that you're sorry."

Sam could feel a pressure on his chest; it was like someone was squeezing the air out of his lungs slowly and painfully.

"Because 'sorry' doesn't suddenly make up for what you did. See, if the roles were reversed? I couldn't have gone on living without knowing what had happened to you. I would've searched, I would've found a way-"

"I didn't know you were still alive!" Sam said, his voice softer than before. His eyes were begin to sting with wetness and he quickly blinked it back, unable to show weakness to his brother. "If I had known, Dean, that you were still out there, I would have-"

"Don't give me that crap. Even if you thought I was dead, you should've looked. Because that's what we do - we find ways."

"You can't call me selfish because I didn't try to raise you from the dead," Sam countered. His heart felt like it was surging; every beat was a slam against the inside of his ribcage.

"Don't make it sound stupid," Dean snapped. "Other people 'move on'. We look for ways, because _we_ know there are ways. You're selfish, Sam, because you couldn't be bothered to try to find one of those ways." His voice was calm yet sharper than the edge of a knife. Sam looked down, wringing his hands, which were damp with warm sweat.

"Benny fought with me - _for_ me - every day. You didn't fight for me once," Dean said into the otherwise silent motel room. "You want to be the 'better brother'? Too late."

Sam couldn't bring himself to look up. It was difficult to breathe; his windpipe felt like it had been sealed shut.

Dean was still facing him, an expression on his face that was usually reserved for the most hateful monsters that they'd killed in the past together. Never had Sam had the look directed at him, and it only made his throat close further.

His hands began to shake and the silence was so deafening yet so excruciating that he finally turned away again, praying that the fight was over. His throat felt so tight that a small choke came out, and as soon as it did he felt more panic set in; Dean would only be angered more by any sign of weakness.

And Dean _did_ notice. "Calm down," he said harshly. "Don't give me that kicked-puppy thing." With that, he turned on his heel and went into the bathroom, slamming the door. Sam was left trembling by the bed, struggling for breath. Nausea was boiling in his stomach like acid, his vision felt spacey and his head was pounding.

 _Stop getting so worked up,_ he told himself, clenching his fists. _Dean's right. Calm down. You've had fights before._

But he couldn't calm down; the look on Dean's face was etched into his memory like stone. His mouth felt like it had been shoved full of cotton, and he grabbed the water bottle on his nightstand, drinking a small sip. It only made the bile in his throat rise more, but it helped parch the horrible arid sensation.

He'd had panic attacks before, but it had been years since he'd had one. The last time, it had been after Jess's death.

Dean hadn't known about those panic attacks either, and Sam didn't intend on letting him find out about these.

He didn't need another reason for Dean to prefer Benny over him.

The shower turned on a minute later and relief flooded through Sam; now, he'd have time to compose himself before Dean came back out.

* * *

"So, I caught wind of something out in Ohio," Sam said the next morning, handing a cup of coffee to Dean. They hadn't said anything else about the fight since it happened, and though Sam could feel the tension in the room, neither of them had tried to make amends.

"Yeah?" Dean said, sipping the coffee and leaning over Sam's shoulder to look at his laptop. "Fourth animal attack in Hocking County in three months," he read aloud. "Police are baffled by the violent attacks, which seem to have been caused by snakes. The victims died from serious injury and blood loss."

"What does it sound like to you?" Sam asked, closing his laptop.

"Vetalas," Dean answered, and Sam nodded.

"Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. Snake-like attacks, blood drained… that's their MO."

"Find anything else?" Dean asked, taking a long sip of coffee.

"Looks like there's a rogue poltergeist several towns over. That's all I could find. But the vetalas have killed more people, so I thought-"

Dean interrupted him. "I'll take the vetalas. You get the poltergeist."

The words echoed in Sam's ears, ringing slightly. Dean said it nonchalantly, but Sam knew exactly what his brother meant.

"Vetalas aren't easy," Sam heard himself saying, his words steeled. "I don't think it'd be smart to go into that on your own. We can go into the hunt together, and then after we can gank the poltergeist."

Dean's lips turned downward. "We can kill them quicker if we separate," he said shortly.

Sam pursed his lips, fighting to not avert his eyes. His throat felt like it was closing again; already, his mouth was drying and his hands were getting warm.

Something in him almost broke at the thought of how much he wanted it to be like old times. He wanted his brother to be annoying, to blast his music in the car and leave his dirty clothes on the floor. He wanted Dean to laugh with him and go to bars with him, research with him, _hunt_ with him.

"Look," he began tentatively, unconsciously wringing his hands. "You could get hurt, or worse, if you go alone-"

"Well, my death didn't seem to bother you too much last time," Dean said, his words clipped and dry. They hit Sam right in his chest and his breathing restricted more. It felt like a weight had been placed into his core and was pulling him downward, tugging at his insides. He wanted desperately to respond, to think of the words that would resolve everything and make them brothers.

But he couldn't find them. Instead, he got up, muttering something about going for a walk, and went out the door without putting his jacket on.

The subzero temperatures that had frozen the town yesterday had risen to about twenty degrees. Sam didn't linger outside; he quickly made his way down the street, trying to control his breathing and racing pulse that was pounding like a snare drum inside of him. There was a coffee shop on the corner, so he went inside and found an empty seat.

People bustled around him, their coats and purses bumping into his back, but he didn't care. He sat with his head in his hands, trying without success to make the intense stress go away. When his breathing had slowed a bit, he looked up to take in the surroundings. His head spun wildly as lightheadedness set in, but ignored it.

The shop was toasty and cramped. Chalkboards lined the walls, describing all of the flavors of coffee, pie, and doughnuts the shop offered. For a brief moment, he considered buying a strawberry rhubarb pie as a peace offering, but the next second he ditched the idea; pie would not solve their problems, not like it could have when they were kids.

He took thirty minutes to regain his composure before getting up and walking back to the motel.

He was slightly surprised to still see the Impala there; half of him had expected Dean to take off and leave him.

However, Dean was close to leaving when Sam entered. His duffel was packed and Sam's few possessions had also been thrown onto the bed for easy packing. It was not an action of kindness, Sam realized quickly, but a hint that he wanted to leave but didn't want to have to speak to Sam.

* * *

They were about halfway to Ohio when Dean finally spoke.

"Benny's coming," he told Sam, as coldly as possible, because he was in no mood to make Sam feel like the tension between them was over.  
Because it was _far_ from over.

Sam's reaction was a bit satisfying. He could see his brother pale slightly, look at him quickly and then look away.

"I invited him," Dean added when Sam remained silent. "Called him yesterday, asked if he wanted to help us out with the vetalas. I thought that you'd be taking care of the poltergeist, not following me, and I needed backup." Silence followed his words.

 _Get angry,_ Dean couldn't help but think. _Dammit, get mad at me! Yell!_

All Sam had done as of the past few days was freeze up and look abashed whenever Dean tried to pick a fight. It didn't make Dean pity him at all; instead, it only made him angrier that Sam couldn't find the guts to argue back.

Dean was still pissed at Sam, and a diplomatic conversation between them wasn't going to make him feel better.

"Were… Garth or… Cas busy? " Sam said finally, his expression strained and voice tight.

"Nah, I just wanted to call Benny. Thought it'd make the hunt more enjoyable, having someone who's got my back," Dean said, purposefully saying the harsh words and realizing he didn't feel regret at all. Sam flinched slightly and turned away.

Dean considered saying something else to get Sam mad - he wanted to yell at his brother _so damn badly_ \- but Sam didn't give him the opportunity, so instead he white-knuckled the car and drove the rest of the way in dead silence. He didn't look at Sam, who was obstinately facing the other way as though he didn't dare face him.

* * *

"Good to see you, man," Dean was saying, shaking Benny's hand and saying the words so warmly that Sam was a bit surprised, because it had been so long since he had heard his brother's voice like that.

"How you doing?" Benny said, grinning, and he turned to Sam. "Hey, Sam."

"Hey. Uh, how are you?" Sam said, despising every moment and willing the hunt to be over. When Dean had told him that he'd invited Benny, it had been like a punch to his airways. Fortunately, Dean hadn't noticed his anxiety in the car (at least, he hoped) because he hadn't said a word.

Or maybe he noticed but he didn't care.

They got into the Impala, and somehow Sam found himself in the backseat while Benny took the passenger. His knees were cramped up against the back of the seat and quickly he was left out of the conversation. He felt like a forgotten child, sitting behind uselessly, so eventually he cleared his throat. Benny and Dean stopped talking and Dean glanced backwards at him.

"Yeah?" he said, his tone casual, but Sam could hear the disdain behind it.

"I just thought…" Sam started to say, but his throat dried and he momentarily lost his voice. He cleared his throat again. "I just thought Benny might want to hear some of the research we did before we take on the hunt."

"That'd be great," Benny said. "Dean said that you think it's vetalas?"  
"Yeah. Uh, the deaths look like the victims were attacked by snakes, and they lost a crap ton of blood, apparently. I did some more digging last night, and there was one witness, but she's six years old so the police don't believe her."

"What'd she say?" Benny prompted.

"Blue, snake-like eyes, and fangs," Sam said, suddenly uncomfortable because Benny had fangs as well. The thought didn't make him feel any more relaxed.

"Sounds like a vetala," Benny agreed. "You got silver knives?"

"Yeah. There are three in the trunk," Sam said. "Stab to the heart, one twist with the knife. That'll take them down."

"Remember those vetalas we faced by the river?" Benny asked, turning to Dean. "It was before we really trusted each other, and-"  
"It was chaos," Dean finished, chuckling a bit as though they were reminiscing a story from a fun night out and not a massacre in Purgatory. Sam fell silent again for the rest of the ride.

* * *

"They should be in here," Dean said, easing the Impala forward into an alley. To their left was an abandoned apartment building, half of which was scorched black from a fire. The edge of the brick wall was crumbling and the windows were dark and dusty.

Sam got out of the car, stretching his sore legs, and joined Dean and Benny at the trunk.

Dean grabbed his own knife and then picked up Sam's choice knife; Sam started to hold out his hand to take it, but then Dean handed it to Benny. Instead, he was left with their third silver knife, the one they usually gave to guests on their hunts. The one that Benny should have taken, Sam thought bitterly, but he tried to ignore it and instead followed them to the outside entrance of the building.

"Alright," Dean said, his tone serious. "There will be two to five of them - probably. It looks like there are three floors, so I can take the first floor; Benny, you take the second, and Sam can go to the top."

They nodded in agreement and stealthily entered the building. Dean continued forward, his flashlight shining light into the musty air of the building. Sam glanced at his brother one last time, again desperately wishing that the hunt could be like old times. Benny and he went to the left to take the stairs, and Benny quietly said to him when he left for the second floor, "Good luck." Sam was so startled that it took him a moment to respond with a hasty "You too," before he climbed the next flight of stairs.

The stairs to the third floor felt much less stable. Some of the bricks had fallen away from the wall, letting cracks of daylight through. Sam fought back the urge to sneeze at the vast collection of dust on this floor. The hallways were empty, and he checked the apartment rooms which were almost all unlocked and open.

Everything was empty. He kept himself ready for anything to spring at him, but nothing came. He was just checking the last room when there was a thud from the floor below him.

"Benny?" he called cautiously. There was no answer.

He sprinted down the stairs, running down the hallway and stopped short when he rounded the corner. Benny was pinned against the wall, barely holding off the vetala, who was poised to bite his neck.

"Hey!" Sam yelled, and the vetala turned, her eyes bright and curious. She studied him for a moment, and then her expression brightened before she turned back to Benny.

Sam was confused as to why she was ignoring him when suddenly there was the sensation of someone creeping up behind him, and he turned just in time to see a younger vetala just behind him. Instinctively he thrust the knife at her, and perhaps because the vetala was young she didn't move in time, and it sunk right into the flesh where her heart was. Sam heaved his hand to the right and twisted the knife once, feeling it break the tendons and hit the bone of her ribcage.

The vetala fell forward, face turning to dust. Sam turned as the other vetala, the one on Benny, shrieked, but she didn't loosen her grip on Benny and her mouth got closer to his neck.

Below him, Sam could hear what sounded like Dean fighting a vetala, but there wasn't time to go help him; Benny was in the most danger at the moment. Sam sprinted forward and tackled the vetala, knocking her away from Benny.

"Go help Dean! I've got this!" he yelled from on top of the struggling vetala, and he saw Benny nod and turn away.

The vetala flipped him over onto his back as though it were no effort, and the wind was slammed out of his breath. He wheezed, pushing her away from him, but now it was obvious why Benny was struggling to hold her off so much - she was strong, much stronger than any humans he had encountered.

He put his hands on her shoulders to keep her from biting him and kicked at her abdomen with his legs; it was enough force to propel her backwards a few feet. She hissed, not waiting for him to sit up and lunged at him. Sam desperately threw a punch at her face, and she snapped backwards for a moment.

The sounds of Dean and Benny on the floor below sounded like they were fighting several vetalas. Sam wielded his knife, preparing to stab the vetala, but she dove at his hand and knocked the knife away. It bounced several feet to the left, just out of reach.

 _Come on, Sam, kill this damn vetala. Dean's going to prefer Benny even more if you can't kill one stupid monster-_

She punched him, hard, and Sam's head slammed backwards, knocking into the floor of the apartment hard. He blinked, dazed, and before he could lift his arms to defend himself the vetala had descended upon his neck.

He could feel her teeth puncture his skin; the sensation of her fangs sliding into his neck incited him to punch her more fervently, and he knocked her away with a hard punch to the temple. All he could hope for was that she hadn't had time to inject her venom into him, but he ignored that possibility and continued to punch her until she scrambled back away from him.

He quickly reached for his knife, feeling the hilt of it in his fingers. The vetala fell back as he thrust it upwards, dodging the arc of the blade.

She slammed him against the wall and ripped at his arm; with a sickening snapping of muscles and what felt like bones, Sam could feel his arm dislocate. He grunted loudly, falling to the floor in pain, breathing heavily. The vetala got what she wanted: now, his dominant hand was out of the game.

She tackled him similarly to how he had tackled her to get her away from Benny, and he was caught off guard and knocked to the floor. He cried out as his arm crumpled beneath him, but didn't have much time to recover. The vetala gripped his shoulders and with her inhuman strength, lifted him off of his feet and slammed him into the brick - once, twice, three times, and nothing was protecting Sam's head from the hard brick of the apartment building wall. Sam's vision ruptured into shattering white and he blindly stabbed at her with the knife, but only hit air. The vetala pulled him forward, her teeth bared. She roughly grabbed his head, and thrust it backwards into the stiff, unyielding brick behind him.

* * *

Fog was stifling him. His vision felt screwed to hell, his hearing was muffled and ringing, and for the life of him Sam couldn't figure out why he was on the floor, nor why there was a girl on top of him. He pushed at her weakly, but she didn't move, and with a jolt of horror he realized she was sucking at his neck.

Bile rose in his throat and he vomited. The girl didn't seem to care; she continued to suck at his throat as he retched beside her.

 _How long was I out?_

 _Not long,_ something told him. _Ow. Head hurts._

Black spots were dancing in front of him, antagonizing him. He blinked hard, trying to get them out of his way, and dizzily felt the girl's teeth slide deeper into his neck.

 _Vamp? Get off get off get off get off get off get off-_

Sam scrabbled his hands uselessly against her face, trying to get her off, but she wasn't fazed nor did she seem to think he was a threat anymore.

His head felt like it had been cracked open, the pain was so great, and if he somehow made it out of this he'd have a hell of a headache. His arm was on fire, the shoulder dangling awkwardly and loosely having been popped out of its socket. The sucking continued at his neck; for how long, Sam wasn't sure. One minute? Ten? Thirty? It felt like hours.

 _And why the hell does my head hurt so much?_

The pain of his head and shoulder must have been distracting him, or maybe he fell unconscious again, because suddenly the girl wasn't on him and he had no memory of her being taken off. He saw her body on the floor, the hilt of a knife sticking out of her chest.

"Dean?" he managed to say, slumped over though he was against the brick. Two figures were standing above him, and one of them was the familiar silhouette of his brother. He squinted, recognizing the second figure but was unable to place his name.

 _Damn. He's going to be so pissed. He might as well just leave me here on the floor and go off with his friend. Can't remember his name. Vampire guy. Better brother than me._

"Sam? Hey, answer me!"

There was a hand holding up Sam's head and he winced as his head spun upon being lifted up.

 _Oh, Dean's trying to get me up. I probably look pretty stupid lying here on the floor._

He tried to push himself up into a sitting position and was successful, but his arm protested at the movement. He gritted his teeth and didn't let a sound escape his lips.

"Sam!" Dean's voice was insistent. Sam wondered vaguely why his thoughts were processing so slowly, and why his thinking felt blurry.

 _Head hurts. Concussion? Probably._

 _Right, Dean is telling me something. Need to listen, or we'll fight again._

The thought made Sam's stomach feel nauseous; all he wanted was for his brother to look at him like he trusted him, not like he had betrayed him. Sam pushed his left arm down onto the floor to get into a standing position when suddenly Dean's hand was on his arm.

"Dude, stay still!"

Sam obeyed his brother's sharp tone automatically, despite it being difficult to focus with the muffled ringing in his ears. Puke rose in his mouth again and he vomited again. Someone was holding his head so that he was retching off to the side and not onto himself. He tried to wipe the vomit off of his mouth with his right arm but nearly bit his tongue off with the accompanying pain.

 _That's right, my right arm hurts._

The hand holding his head off to the side now situated him up a bit more so that he was less slouched.

 _Was it Dean?  
No, he's mad at me. _

"Hey, you okay?"  
Dean's face was level with Sam's, and Sam turned away slightly, unwilling to face his brother.

"Sam? Are you okay?"

 _I'm fine,_ he thought, but the effort it would take to actually say the words aloud wasn't there.

"Sam! Answer me!"

"Fine," Sam ground out finally. The words felt thick in his mouth, like they were cotton swabs.

There was a sudden blinding light in his eyes, and he squirmed away from it.

"Sam, I need you to look at the light. I think you have a concussion."

Fingers forced his eyelids opened and he blinked rapidly at the bright light. The voices above him were talking. Sam could hear them, but it was muffled and there was an annoying high pitched buzz in the background.

"Sammy? Come on, open your eyes. Let's get the hell out of here, I'll patch you up."

The words were comforting. There was something off about that. Dean hadn't been… big brother in a long time.

"Get away," Dean said suddenly, fiercely.

 _Oh. Nevermind. He's still mad._

"Oh, God… I'm so sorry…there's just so much blood, I'm… I'll leave now," Better Brother said to Dean, backing away, clutching his mouth. Sam could see the tips of white fangs coming out his mouth.

"Sammy, I'm going to get you out of here," Dean was saying. "I need to set your arm first. You ready?"

 _Set my arm. Set my arm. Set my arm._ Sam ran the words through his head three times before understanding, and by then it was too late; there was a sudden snap in his arm and he yelled, the sound coming out of his throat unintentionally as hot stabs twisted at his shoulder and arm.

"You've got one hell of a concussion, Sammy," Dean was saying, helping him to his feet. "I think we should go to the hospital."

The statement circled around Sam's head for several seconds.

"No…?" he slurred slightly. He realized he didn't sound very convincing and he said as firmly as possible, "No."

"Well, it's not up to you," Dean said, practically carrying Sam's entire weight as they slowly made their way down the hallway. "I think it's almost as bad as the one Dad got back in Oregon when we were in high school."

"I'm fine," Sam insisted, though he still couldn't even remember what had happened.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Dean asked, holding up his middle finger.

"One, asshole," Sam said, and the banter between him made him grin in spite of himself.

"What're you smiling at?" Dean asked, frowning.

Sam's stomach lurched. "I'm… I'm sorry, Dean," he said, almost in a whisper. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Everything. The fights, the…" he stopped short, swaying dangerously to the left even with Dean holding him up. He vomited again and his vision went black for a few moments; when he came back to, Dean was holding him up completely.

"Sammy, I'm taking you to the hospital," Dean said, and pulled out his phone, presumably dialing 911.

"I'm fine," Sam tried to say, but Dean didn't seem to hear him.

"Like hell you're fine," Dean said angrily, taking off his jacket and pressing it against Sam's neck.

He'd almost forgotten about the bite marks.

"Dean," Sam started to say, aware that his words were slurring. "I don't want to fight anymore. We're… we're adults. And you're my brother. And I can't deal with the fights anymore."

 _And I can't deal with the panic attacks,_ he thought to himself.

Dean kept his hand pressed against Sam's neck tightly, and Sam could hear his voice but didn't process the words.

"Hm?" he asked, his eyelids falling.  
"Not yet," Dean said, his voice rough. But it wasn't rough like it had been the past few days with their fights - it was rough… like he _cared._ "Keep talking to me, dude. Don't fall asleep. Concussion, remember?"  
"No," Sam said honestly.

 _Well, that explains the head pain._

"Where's… Better Brother?" Sam asked finally, fighting to keep his eyes open. The headache felt like it was trying to escape his skull, bouncing on the inside of his brain and head, and he winced.

"What? Benny?" Dean asked, his voice lowering. "Sammy, I was pissed at you - still am, actually - but that doesn't mean you're not…"

"I'm sorry," Sam interrupted, unsure if he had said it yet and felt it would be prudent to say it.

"I am too," was Dean's quiet response, and Sam relaxed, feeling the tension that had been between them ease. His head slid onto Dean's shoulder and he closed his eyes, willing the pain to stop… the dizziness and spinning to go away…  
Dean was shaking his good shoulder. "I can hear the ambulance. Hang in there, Sammy, we'll get some meds for you soon, and patch you up."

The next hour was a dazed blur. Sam was hardly aware of the paramedics shining lights into his eyes, cleaning out his neck wounds, and bandaging up the other scrapes he'd apparently gotten. People kept having him read signs, answer questions, count their fingers, and do other tests that made him realize how much he appreciated his and Dean's usual habit of patching up one another back at the motel room.

It was a relief to get into the hospital bed and sleep, knowing that Dean was by his side and wasn't going to let anything happen to him.

* * *

"Do you remember what happened now?" Dean asked the next day when Sam was sitting up in bed and sipping on a water.

"Not really. It's like a blank spot," Sam told his brother, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. "Where did Benny go? I don't really remember him leaving."

Dean sighed. "He didn't mean to… his fangs popped out. You were bleeding pretty heavily, and I guess the scent was strong. He felt really bad about it. Called me last night and asked how you were doing."

"I'll be fine if you want to go meet up with him," Sam offered emptily.

Dean frowned at him. "What's up with you?"

"What? Nothing."

"You're acting like we hate each other or something-"

"Well, we've said some pretty harsh things to each other lately," Sam interrupted. "I mean, I'm not winning the brother of the year award, and I just thought that more space would-"

"Yeah, so we say things we don't mean!" Dean said, his voice getting louder. "And we fight! Things came out of my mouth just yesterday that I'll probably get sent to Hell for! But, dammit Sam, even if I tell you to your face that I prefer Benny over you…" He shook his head angrily. "We're fighting! Of course I'm going to say things to make you made, to hurt you!"

"Then why-"

"But that doesn't mean we stop being brothers. Sure, we'll have a spat and be at each other's throats for the next day, week, hell - the next month, but I'm not going to ditch you, ever. Even if you were hanging out with a girl and a dog while I was in Purgatory, Sam."

Sam opened his mouth to interject but Dean continued.

"Even if Benny is the most fun, loyal, great guy ever, and even if you're my geeky nerd of a brother who doesn't like going to bars and hitting up chicks for one night. You're still my brother and that's not ever going to change. Ever. We've been through so much crap together that this doesn't surprise me at all."

"I just thought… that you preferred Benny now," Sam said quietly.

Dean snorted. "Come on, Sam, we were fighting. If anyone else had to live with you for this many years, I think they'd say some crap like that too."

There was a heavy pause.

"But there's something you need to talk about. Something you didn't tell me," Dean said suddenly. "Why the hell didn't you say you were having panic attacks?"

Sam's stomach dropped into his shoes. "I, uh…" he said, finding that improvising wasn't as easy when there were drugs in his system. "They're not… I mean, I'm fine, I just… how'd you know?"

"You were mumbling last night when we were waiting for the ambulance. You weren't really coherent, but I heard you," Dean said, looking at Sam unblinkingly, his jaw set and face cold. "Next time that happens, you tell me. If I had known-"

"It wasn't your fault," Sam began to say, but Dean cut him off.

"Of course it was my fault!" Dean barked, standing up quickly. "If I could take back everything I said, I would. I mean… what I said - our _conversations_ \- gave you panic attacks. That's messed up, Sammy. I'm not letting that happen again. So you tell me next time, got it?"

Sam didn't answer; one half of him was swelling with happiness that he and Dean were making amends, but the other half was mortified that his brother had found out.

"Got it, Sam? Don't hide it from me. It's not something that we're gonna take lightly. This isn't a salt and burn; we don't just cover it up and be done with it. Next time that happens, say something." Dean was looking at Sam with such a fiercely caring intensity that Sam nodded, making direct eye contact with his brother for what felt like the first time in days.

"I will, Dean," he said weakly. "I promise."

 _This was a heavy topic to write and I hope I did it justice. Like Dean said, panic attacks aren't just something you brush off, and I hope that I conveyed that in the story._

 _Thanks for reading! I'd also like to thank everyone who has favorited and followed this story; it's given me so much inspiration to write, knowing that there are people somewhere out there in the world who are enjoying these. Love you all so much!_

 _Also, I'm running low on prompts, so please please please feel free to send me a prompt through a review or a PM; whichever you prefer!_

 _Thanks!_


	14. Hallucination

_Hello, everyone! This prompt is from AllShallFade777:_

 _Something in season 7, where Sam gets hurt but his hallucinations keep him from realizing it at first-like someone is shooting at them and he hallucinates that the bullets miss, or something like that-and it's not until they finish the hunt and think they won that they realize Sam is hurt, so by then the injury has gotten worse (more blood loss, or maybe he got poisoned so it had more time to spread; something like that)._

 _Awesome prompt, thank you!_

* * *

Sam regretted having taken on their most recent hunt the second that the schizophrenic farmer started to chase them across a strawberry field with his gun.

There had been missing people in New York, all disappearing right around a strawberry field on a farm. The patterns put the center of the strawberry field in the middle of all of the disappearances. It didn't take very much research to discover that the previous owner of the farm, Mr. George Fogg, had killed himself in the center of the field.

According to the lore, his blood had mixed with the red juice of the strawberries and waited in the soil to wreak his vengeance upon the descendants of the town. It didn't take a genius to realize that Fogg's ghost was now tormenting the people of the town.

Dean had found the hunt first, and he convinced Sam that they should take care of it. With their names tarnished by the Leviathan, and with Dick Roman in the wind, there was no point in sitting around waiting for something to happen.

They'd gone late at night to find the bones and burn them. Of course, the farmer's dog had woken up, and woken up the farmer with its barking. The farmer hadn't been too pleased to see two men out in his field, and he started sprinting after them with a gun and a string of curses flying out of his mouth.

"Run faster!" Dean bellowed as their feet flew across the strawberries. The farmer hadn't given up, and though Sam and Dean were faster by far, Sam was carrying the shovel and Dean was holding the heavy bag of weapons. Combined with an assortment of bruises from their last hunt, they weren't exactly running at top speed.

"Get the hell off my farm!" the farmer screamed from behind them. When they'd visited earlier in the day, the farmer hadn't seemed very stable to Sam, and now he realized that assumption was true as the farmer continued to chase them.

"That's what we're doing!" Dean yelled back over his shoulder, not slowing down in the slightest.

"And don't come back!" the farmer shouted, and his footsteps ceased. Sam thought that he must have given up until the sound of bullets echoed out into the night, ringing through the silence sharply.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean yelled, whirling his head around. They both rolled to the ground instinctively, ducking their heads.

The bullets stopped.

Sam glanced up and saw the farmer was reloading his gun, so he yanked at Dean's shoulder and they took off for the Impala.

"Damn," Dean said to the darkness of the car once they'd gotten in and slammed the doors, panting heavily. " _Damn_ , he has anger issues."

There was a twenty second pause in which they both caught their breaths.

"You all good?" Dean asked. Sam quickly looked down.

"Yeah. You?"

"I'm fine," Dean said. "How the hell are we going to finish this now?"

Sam shrugged. "We'll have to go back out."

"He'll shoot us!"

"Not if we don't wake up the dog. We should wait a couple of hours, and just before dawn we can sneak back out."

Dean stared at him for a second. "Alright," he said finally. "But this time, if Crazy Farmer starts shooting at us, I'm shooting him first."

Sam sighed. "We're not shooting him."

Dean snorted and muttered something about "try me", and then started the car. "Might as well get some shut eye," he said. "You can sleep. I'll keep watch in case Crazy Farmer or Fogg's ghost decide to show up."

"Nah, I'm not tired," Sam lied. "You get some rest."

Dean eyed him a moment, then shrugged. "Wake me up for the next shift," he mumbled and was out quicker than Sam thought possible.

"Just you and me now," said Lucifer from the backseat. "Can I have shotgun? You always get shotgun."

Sam ignored him, choosing instead to look out the window and watch the stars. He was reminded of years previously when he and Jess had gone out stargazing together. It seemed like a century ago.

"Aw, come on, don't ignore me," Lucifer said, leaning closer to Sam and blowing into his ear. "You've got a while to just sit here. Might as well have a fun conversation."

Sam tried to see past the trees. Barely visible was the Big Dipper, almost directly ahead of him.

"Talk to me… come on, Sam," Lucifer said, reaching out and gripping Sam's chin in his hand. "Like this." He tugged at Sam, who resolutely did nothing but press his scar on his hand.

Lucifer flickered once.

"Don't send me away, man," he pleaded, finally releasing Sam's chin from his hand. Sam leaned away in relief, pressing harder on the scar. "Bunk buddy!"

Digging into the scar with his fingernail worked. He nearly drew blood, he was pressing so hard, but Lucifer vanished completely.

It was getting chilly in the car, so Sam quietly grabbed the blanket from the backseat and draped it across himself and Dean, who was now drooling onto the seat.

"That didn't work for very long," Lucifer said, popping back in. "You can't keep pressing on that scar for the rest of your life, Sam. You just gotta accept the fact that I'll always be with you. Always."

Sam stared straight ahead, feeling Lucifer take the knife out of his pocket.

 _Not real._

Lucifer carved into the leather seats of the Impala with interest. Sam saw only out of the corner of his eye and tried to not let it bother him.

Good thing it was a hallucination, or Dean would be pissed.

"Remember I carved you like this once?" Lucifer said, gesturing to the seat. "It wasn't quite as clean, though. You had more guts spilling out."

Sam remembered.

"You should finish the hunt, Sammy," Lucifer said. "I'm bored. I could use a little action."

Sam stiffened his jaw but said nothing.

"We should wake up Dean and do the hunt," Lucifer suggested. "I can wake him up, if you want."

Sam didn't answer, and Lucifer shrugged. "Alrighty. I'll just do it the hard way."

He lunged forward, grabbing Sam's throat in his hands and pressing his fingers deeply into his trachea.

 _Not real. Not. Real._

Sam coughed, wheezing for breath. He fought against Lucifer's fingers, desperately trying to peel them away.

"Big Brother will wake up any moment…" Lucifer said, casually checking his watch while keeping his hands securely around Sam's neck. Sam flailed, struggling to get Lucifer off, and finally his fingers found the door of the Impala. He opened it and tumbled out onto the grass, Lucifer's fingers vanishing from his neck.

"What the hell?" came Dean's sleepy voice from inside the Impala. Sam quickly got to his feet, struggling for breath, and pulled himself back inside the dark Impala.

"Dude, you okay?" Dean said, watching him warily. "Did you just fall out?"

"I'm fine," Sam said shortly. Lucifer was gone now, but the feeling of fingers crushing his throat was not.

"You hallucinating?" Dean asked. Sam didn't answer, glad that it was dark enough in the car so that Dean couldn't see his expression.

"What about the scar? I thought it made him go away?" Dean said after a moment, his voice quiet.

"It does. He just came back," Sam said, rubbing at his neck.

He couldn't see Dean, but was sure that his brother was looking at him with concern.

"Might as well finish the hunt," Dean said after a few moments. "Now that we're both up."

Sam silently agreed, even though it was bothering him slightly that it had been Lucifer's idea in the first place to get up and finish the hunt.

Well, his hallucination's idea.

They walked back out to the strawberry field, this time taking care to do so quietly to not wake the dog. Once the coast was clear and the farmer was nowhere in sight, Dean began digging while Sam kept guard.

"Don't you want a turn?" Dean said after a half an hour of digging, wiping sweat from his brow.

"You're quicker than me," Sam said automatically. "And it's almost dawn. We need to hurry."

It was an excuse, but it was also true, so Dean set to work again, grumbling about how difficult it was being the stronger one.

They managed to get to the bones and light them on fire without any more debacles. The dog didn't wake up, nor did the first streaks of dawn begin to paint the trees until they were safely on their way back to the car.

After hours of squinting in the inky black night, Sam was relieved to finally be able to see as they made their way back to the Impala. Dean started the car while Sam threw the shovel into the backseat and then the weapons into the trunk.

"Sam, what the hell is that?" Dean said when Sam opened the passenger door. He was pointing to Sam's seat.

"What's what?" Sam asked, quickly glancing at the backseat that Lucifer had torn up with his knife. To his relief, it wasn't still torn up.

 _It's a hallucination, remember?_ he reminded himself.

"There's nothing there," Sam said blankly when Dean continued to look at Sam's seat with a mixture of confusion, concern, and anger.

"There's nothing there-? God, Sam, you're bleeding!" Dean said suddenly, and within an instant he was out of the car. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Sam glanced down at himself, and all he saw was his old plaid shirt and no blood.

"What are you talking about?" he said, frowning. He was a bit light-headed and cold, maybe a bit nauseous, but fine otherwise. Come to think of it, he had a headache. But nothing more.

"That!" Dean said, pulling Sam's jacket away. Sam slapped his hand.

"I'm fine," he said. "Not bleeding. Are _you_ okay? Did you hit your head?"

"Shut up, I'm fine. Let me just look for a moment," Dean said. "Take off your jacket."

Sam scowled but obliged, and turned around. "See? I'm fine."

But Dean was looking at Sam's lower back with extreme concern. "That's going to need stitches," he said, kneeling and gingerly touching the edge of Sam's shirt. "Why didn't you say anything? You know better than that, dumbass."

Dean's words were a mix of worry and anger. Sam blinked, confused. "Either I'm missing something, or something supernatural is toying with us, because I'm not hurt, Dean," he said as seriously as possible.

"You sure?" Lucifer said suddenly, coming out from behind Dean. "I think you missed something, Sammy."  
There was a sudden blinding flash of heat in Sam's lower back, and he yelped, confused. The heat was followed by pain and he promptly crashed to the ground, Dean catching him barely in time.

Blood was covering Sam's side of the Impala. Sticky, dried blood. One quick brush to the back of his shirt and Sam could feel the familiar warmth of blood on his lower back.

"Dean… I'm bleeding," he said, bewildered. "But I wasn't bleeding seconds ago."

"Yeah, you were," Dean said, looking at him with concern. "Let's get you back to the motel. It looks shallow, but if you've already been bleeding for this long…" He shook his head.

Sam struggled to get up from the ground, wincing as the pain in his back spiked. "The farmer got me," he realized. "But I swear, Dean, I didn't notice until now - Lucifer, he must've - I mean, I was hallucinating… or something, because I couldn't… didn't…" he was talking incessantly now, he knew, but the pain was almost making him delirious and the coldness that he'd been feeling earlier felt much stronger.

Dean seemed to read his mind and put his hand briefly on Sam's forehead. "Damn. That's a fever," he said, helping Sam into the passenger side. He took the driver's seat and wildly backed the Impala out of where they'd parked it.

"I'm fine," Sam insisted as Dean drove at least sixty down the narrow dirt road. "Dean, slow down-"

Dean's face was stony. "Sam, this can't happen again," he said, not easing up on the gas.

Sam felt a flash of annoyance accompany the fog that was beginning to creep into his senses. "I didn't _intend_ to hallucinate and not notice a damn bullet in my back-"

"I know that. I'm not pissed at you, I'm pissed at everything that's happened to us, and I'm pissed that it's gotten this bad. And don't tell me that your back is fine, either, because that's a bullet in your back and we can't go to a damn hospital because of the Leviathans."

Yeah, Dean was pissed, Sam gathered. He tried to ignore the stabbing sensation and instead focused on staying lucid as Dean sped back to the motel, breaking every speed limit by at least twenty.

* * *

"This is gonna sting," Dean warned as he poured antiseptic solution over the bullet wound. Sam had been pressing a towel against the flow of the wound while Dean grabbed the first aid kit, and while most of the flow was staunched, Sam could feel the effects of the blood loss. He felt dizzy, and had almost blacked out walking into the motel room.

Needless to say, if Dean hadn't noticed the blood, Sam probably still wouldn't have. The bullet wasn't very deep; after all, it had only grazed his back.

"I'm going in," Dean said. "Want some whiskey?"

Sam took the bottle from Dean without speaking and downed the last of the bottle. He closed his eyes, hoping it would numb the pain that was about to come.

"I'm going in now," Dean narrated as he carefully stuck the tweezers into the wound. "I can see it. Not too much longer."

Sam clutched the edge of the bed tightly, grunting as Dean dug into the torn skin.

"Almost got it," Dean said, his voice more gentle than usual. "Almost out, Sammy."

With a clink, the bullet was suddenly dropped onto the nightstand. Sam opened his eyes, his breathing slowing down slightly.

"Is it out?" he said, his voice a bit strained.

"Yeah. I'm putting in more solution," Dean said, and poured it over the wound. Sam bit his lip, trying to keep from making a sound.

"Alright. Let me just wrap it up, and you're good to go," Dean said. He gingerly took the bandages and helped to cover up the clotted blood.

"So, what are we going to do about this? This whole, 'the hallucination is so vivid that I don't notice a bullet in my back' thing?" Dean asked, his face dark.

Sam shrugged, and winced when it made his back throb. "Nothing," he said. "There's nothing to do."

"Sam, you could've bled out, all because the damn devil in your head-"

"What am I supposed to do?" Sam snapped. "It's like everyone's saying. My eggs are scrambled and there's absolutely nothing I can do. I'm a liability; I can't trust myself. What if on the next hunt I hallucinate and you get hurt?"

"You're not a liability," Dean started to say, but Sam interrupted him.

"Yeah? Then tell me, honestly, that there's no way that this could go wrong again, and you end up getting hurt, or worse." Sam turned away, the corners of his mouth pulling downwards. "Next time, I should stay at the motel. Do the research. You can do the hunting."

"Oh, stop the melodramatic crap," Dean said angrily. "We don't stop hunting, because that's all we do - hunt. Even when the world was ending in the damn apocalypse, we were still hunting. These hallucinations? I'm not going to let them stop you from saving good, innocent people with me."

"I could hurt them, Dean," Sam said sourly.

Lucifer was suddenly sitting across from Sam on the bed. "I'll make sure you accidentally hurt a good person next time," he promised. "It'll be fun."

Sam made eye contact with Lucifer and trembled inside at the thought. Dean followed his gaze.

"He still there?" he asked. Sam nodded.

"Okay. Listen to me. I don't care that your gourd is cracked. What I care about is us working through this shit, just like we always have. I won't let you hurt anyone, Sam."

"You can't promise that - what if I hurt you-?"

"I won't let you," Dean repeated. "And until we can find Dick and rip his friggin' lungs out, we're going to keep hunting. Hell, the monsters should all be afraid of us, because we're going to kill as many sons of bitches as possible. Just like old times."

Sam pressed his scar tightly, and Lucifer vanished. "Thanks, Dean," he finally said.

"Alright. Girly moment over. How about we go get pancakes? It's still early," Dean said, standing up. "And you can get your gross fruit parfait," he added to Sam.

"It's _healthy_ -"

"It's gross." Dean shook his head at the inevitable fruit that Sam would order, and together they left the motel room to enjoy the early morning air.

 _So, for some reason this ended up being short. I contemplated adding on to it but it didn't want to lengthen, so I guess here it is._

 _Thanks SO MUCH for all of the activity lately! So many people have been favoriting and following and it really makes my day, love you guys!_

 _Don't forget to leave any prompt ideas in a review! I've got several lined up but eventually I'll get to yours :) Again, thank you AllShallFade777 for the fun prompt!_


	15. Infection

**Prompts:** _I combined two prompts, because I was having trouble coming up with a plotline! The first prompt is from a guest review: Seeing as how Sam has had his fair share or broken hearts and failed relationships, I'd love to read a chapter of Dean helping Sam._

 _And the other prompt is from samgirl19: Red meat episode where sam gets shot. What if the bullet did more damage than what was shown._

 **Set:** _Right after 11x17, "Red Meat". Aside from the connection to that episode, I'm ignoring the season 11 plotline for this oneshot._

 **Warnings:** _Profanity. Nothing too bad. A bit of romance, nothing graphic._

 **A/N:** _I'm just a high school girl writing fanfiction in between homework, so I have zero medical knowledge. I apologize for any errors! Also, never had relationship experience either, so that might sound a bit off too. Writer's license, right? :)_

 _ALSO THE FINALE WAS SO GOOD! The fight scene made me laugh a bit but I love the show so much that it was endearing :)_

* * *

"Dude. Fried pickles," Dean said, pointing at the menu. "And ribs."

They were sitting in a tightly packed barbeque diner outside of Charleston, South Carolina. The evening was warm and humid, but a balmy breeze kept the worst of the heat away.

"Can't we pick something cheaper?" Sam persuaded. "We only have fifty left. And we need to restock the first aid kit before the hunt."

"Fried pickles. Greatest appetizer ever, man," Dean repeated for emphasis. "We're not skipping out on those."

"Fine," Sam relented, not in the mood to argue over it, since they'd been in the car all day. It had been Dean's idea to travel to Charleston even though they had just finished the disastrous werewolf hunt in Idaho, because Sam needed time to rest and heal before getting back in the game. After all, he'd just been shot in the damn abdomen and almost died on a cold floor in the middle of nowhere.

Dean's words - not Sam's.

So, they'd tackled the nearly forty hour drive from the cold of Idaho to the humidity of South Carolina, stopping at Sioux Falls to visit Jody briefly and then staying in a cheap motel in Kentucky before reaching Charleston.

It had been a long drive, to say the least. But Charleston seemed promising for an easy salt and burn; it was, after all, a supposedly haunted city. There were all sorts of prisons and plantations that had ghosts on them, though many of them were tourist traps.  
"Remember when Dad brought us to Charleston?" Dean asked, drumming his fingers on the table. "He hated it."

"Too many leads," Sam remembered. "The research took days, didn't it?"

"You were cranky that week," Dean said, grinning at him. "You got pissy when your research wasn't working for you."

"Shut up," Sam said, just as the waitress brought the fried pickles over. "Thanks," he added to her, and she blushed slightly. Her hair was dark and curly, ringlets falling over her shoulders daintily.

"Are y'all ready to order?" she asked them, the slight twinge of a Southern accent apparent in her voice.

"We'll split the ribs," Dean said, handing her the menu. Sam frowned slightly - he'd much rather have a house salad - but there wasn't any point in buying more food than they would end up eating.

"Alright. I'll put that in for you," the waitress said, smiling at Sam before turning and making her way to the kitchen.

"She likes you," Dean said, barely intelligible because of the vast amount of fried pickles shoved in his mouth. "Hit her up, dude. You're practically a monk."

"You're disgusting," Sam said, ignoring Dean's statement. He watched as Dean shoved another handful of fried pickles into his mouth and swallowed noisily.

"Want some?" Dean offered, pushing the plate over to Sam.

"No, thanks," Sam said quickly.

The ribs arrived shortly after that, the waitress still sending furtive glances Sam's way.

"Alright," Sam said, once they'd both finished eating the ribs and were waiting for the check. "So, let's make a plan."

"Can't we do that tomorrow?" Dean said irritatedly. "We just got here. You were the one who slept most of the ride, remember? I drove."

"People are dying," Sam reminded him, and that was enough to get Dean to shut up. "So. We know people in Charleston are dropping dead randomly like an arrow's struck their chest, except there's no arrow to be found. The only link between the vics is that they're all tourists."

"Some kind of ghost curse?" Dean suggested. "There aren't many creatures that hit their targets with an invisible arrow."

"Yeah. But they're all in different locations. I mean, one person was found dead thirty miles outside the city. It could be a cursed object; maybe someone's selling the tourists voodoo crap."

The waitress suddenly returned with their check.

"Hey, uh, Olivia," Sam said suddenly, reading her nametag and smiling at her warmly. "Do you happen to know anything about local lore? My brother and I, we're reporters doing an article on urban legends and stories of Charleston."

"We heard about a story involving an arrow to the chest," Dean prompted. "Do you know anything or anyone that could help us with the article?"

Olivia's face turned beet red but she nodded. "Um, I know about that, actually."

Sam leaned forward. "Can you tell us about it?"

"Yeah, okay," the waitress said, her eyes flickering from Sam's face to the table shyly. "So, at Boone Hall - one of the plantations - there was a girl there who supposedly turned down one of her childhood friends after he professed his love for her. The girl, Ammie Jenkins, instead married another man. But, one day, she was killed with an arrow to the chest. According to the story, she died on the thirteenth step of the house, and no matter how much it was cleaned, her blood stained that stair forever." The waitress ended abruptly. "Does that, uh, help at all?"

"Yeah, it does. How'd you know all that?" Sam asked.

"I… uh, free time," the waitress said, blushing even harder. "I thought the ghost stories were fascinating."

Sam could feel Dean's amused eyes on him but ignored his brother. "Me too," he said, smiling at her.

"I could, you know, help you out with the research," Olivia offered. "My dad has a collection of books on ghost stories and Charleston history that you and your brother could use."

"Hey, that'd be great," Sam said. "Your dad wouldn't mind?"

Olivia laughed. "He's in his sixties and watches birds in his free time. I doubt he'd mind you referencing his books."

"I'd love to check those out," Sam agreed. "Do you, uh, want to write down your number, or I could call you… you know, so we can meet up - for the books - whenever works best for you-"

"Yeah, I'll write it here," Olivia said, her voice an octave higher. She took the pen out of her apron and wrote her number onto the napkin.

"I'll call you tomorrow," Sam said, smiling. "I'm Sam."

"Nice to meet you, Sam," the waitress said, slightly shakily, and she cast a quick smile at Dean. "Uh, here's your credit card. And have a good evening!" She backed up a bit and returned hastily to another table, the hint of a smile on her lips.

"Be quiet," Sam snapped before Dean opened his mouth.

"Wow. Two geeks trying to flirt," Dean snorted. "That was the highlight of my week. Smooth moves, little brother."

"Asshole," Sam said, pitching the last fried pickle at him.

"'Do you, uh, want to write down your number?'" Dean impersonated Sam in a high falsetto, laughing. "I'm going to have to teach you how to ask for a girl's number, dude."

"What are you, five?" Sam asked, standing up quickly. A bit too quickly - the healing gunshot wound in his abdomen flared, and it felt like muscles were tearing with the movement. Sam clutched at it, trying hard not to make a sound, but Dean noticed.

"You okay?" he asked, every bit of banter from moments before replaced with genuine concern.

"It's fine," Sam bit out, slowly removing his hand. "Let's go."

* * *

The motel Dean picked was a bit north of Charleston. It was cheap, unsuspicious, and near a bar - the three things that mattered the most.

"Looks like someone puked in here," Sam commented.

"Who picked the colors in here?" Dean asked, wrinkling his nose. The olive curtains, mustard armchair, and orange flooring clashed horribly with one another, not to mention the vibrant patterns made it dizzying to look at.

"It looks like someone puked on here, too," Sam said. He was pointing at the bedspread of the queen bed closer to the door. Dean looked down at the suspicious looking stain, and threw his bag onto the other bed.

"You get that one," he said, nodding towards the puke stained bed.

"Hang on - at least rock paper scissors for it," Sam said, sending an irritated glance at the offending bed.

"What are you, five?" Dean said, throwing his brother's words back at him from earlier. "Sorry. I'm older. I get dibs."  
He heard Sam mutter something about him being a dick, and he threw himself onto the bed, pleased with himself. With a quick flick of the remote he turned the television on, not bothering to check the channel guide to find a program.

"You should change your bandages," Dean said after a moment, considering his brother who was still standing and looking at the puke stained bed with disdain.

"Thanks, Mom," Sam replied, but nevertheless he dug into the first aid kit and took out the roll of bandages.

"How's it looking?"

"Fine," was Sam's automatic response. Dean glanced up from the television.

"That's getting infected," he observed from the bed. "Clean it out again with the antiseptic solution."

"I know," Sam said, his tone a bit harsher than usual, and that instantly told Dean all he needed to know. The wound was hurting Sam.

"Is it bleeding again?" Dean asked suddenly, sitting up.

Sam winced. "Yeah," he said, frustrated. "I'll go stitch it up. Again."

"It shouldn't still be popping stitches," Dean said. "Let me do it."

"I'm an adult, Dean. I did it last time and I can do it this time," Sam said, his tone annoyingly superior.

"Well, it's bleeding, so you didn't do it right," Dean said bluntly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Stop being such a wuss and let me help you."

Sam gave him a dirty look but offered the needle and thread. They melted into positions like so many times before, after hunts that didn't go quite as planned. Dean leaned over Sam, carefully weaving the needle in and out, and Sam leaned back, giving Dean a wide berth to work with.

"Almost done," Dean said in a low voice, frowning at how hot the skin was around the wound.

"God, I hate gunshot wounds," Sam said, gritting his teeth.

"Hurts like a bitch," Dean agreed sympathetically. He worked in silence for a few more moments.

"And… done." He tied up the thread and tossed the needle onto the counter, making a mental note to clean it. Sam gingerly placed his hand on the bandage.

"So, tomorrow," he began, clearing his throat. "Do you want to go scope out Boone Hall while I go check out the books the waitress mentioned?"

"Oh, yeah," Dean said seriously. "You go check out those books. And have some fun while you're at it."

Sam gave him an exasperated look. "If you're talking about Olivia-"

"You two can hit it off over the history of Charleston. Quiz each other over Fort Sumter."

"You remember Fort Sumter?" Sam asked, with a bit too much incredulity in his voice for Dean's liking.

"Shut up. I liked the Civil War," Dean said, ignoring the geeky expression on his brother's face. "And no, I don't want to discuss the war with you."

Sam frowned. "I wasn't going to ask to discuss the war with you."

"Right. You'll be discussing it with Olivia tomorrow," Dean said, enjoying Sam's frustrated sigh.

"Anyway, I'm going to get the books tomorrow - and nothing else - and then I'll meet you at Boone Hall around two."

Dean nodded in agreement, Sam's words going in one ear and out the other as he switched the television channel to the football game.

* * *

"Dude. Wake up."

Sam's cheerful morning voice was what woke Dean up the next morning, and he rolled over to find his brother sitting on the bed like he'd been up for hours.

"What time is it?" he asked, fumbling for his phone on the nightstand.

"Almost nine. I got breakfast."

"I figured," Dean muttered, looking at the apple Sam was holding. "Please tell me you got more than apples."

"Yeah. I grabbed a couple yogurts."

Dean scowled. "Come on, man. You're not the only one here, you know."

Sam stood up quickly and made his way to the fridge to take a yogurt out. He tossed it to Dean, who caught it and set it down next to him sullenly.

"I would've gotten egg sandwiches," Sam said blatantly, "but you wanted to spend our money on fried pickles last night."

Dean groaned and sat up, blinking blearily in the bright light. "At least keep the curtains closed," he grumbled, getting up. He glanced at the first aid kit to find it untouched from where he'd left it last night.

"And change the bandages," he added. "It looked like it was getting infected."

"I know," Sam said, a hint of annoyance in his voice. "I'm taking care of it."

Dean stumbled over to the counter, opening up the mini fridge and taking out the water he'd put in there the previous night.

"Dean, also, I should probably let you know that-" Sam began, but Dean cut him off as he picked up the fallen yogurt Sam had tossed him.

"Key lime pie? You couldn't have chosen a slightly less disgusting flavor?" Dean said, tossing the yogurt aside with a snort.

Sam looked taken aback. "You like pie."

"Not key lime pie flavored yogurt," Dean said, aware that he was in a foul mood because of Sam's morning cheeriness.

Morning people pissed him off.

"Well, take it or leave it, because we have practically no money left," Sam said, shrugging.

Dean ignored his brother and made his way to the bathroom, already sensing that he'd be a bit less hostile after a hot shower.

* * *

"Alright, so where's Olivia's dad's place?" Dean asked once he and Sam had gotten into the Impala.

"Uh… Olivia actually already brought the books from her dad's to her place," Sam said, averting Dean's gaze slightly. "So you can drop me off at her place."

Dean paused, a slight smirk on his lips. "That still doesn't tell me where I'm dropping you off," he said, phrasing the sentence so that Sam would feel like a teenager who didn't have a driver's license.

"32 Diploma Drive," Sam said hastily. "I have it here on GPS." He waved his phone vaguely in the air.

"Alrighty," Dean said, and took a closer look at Sam. His brother had clearly showered and brushed his hair, not to mention he was clean-shaven. "You excited for your date?"  
"It's not a-"

"No need to blush, Sammy. I'm happy for you," Dean said, throwing a grin at Sam. Sam's cheeks looked like they were on fire, and there was a bit of sweat on his forehead.

"When was the last time you dropped me off at a girl's place?" Sam muttered suddenly, laughing a bit. "This is humiliating."

"You're the one who told me to go to Boone Hall after," Dean said, shrugging, and took a closer look at Sam. "Dude. Relax."

"I'm relaxed."

"You look like a fifteen year old boy on his first date. You really need to get out more."

"Shut up, jerk," Sam said, hitting his arm. Dean didn't miss the sharp outtake of breath as his brother's hand leapt to where the bandage was under his shirt.

"And take it easy," Dean added. "I don't think Olivia would be too excited to see blood coming through your shirt."

"I hadn't thought of that," Sam said sarcastically. "Any other tips?"

"Yeah. Don't forget the condoms."

"You're such an asshole," Sam said, shaking his head.

Dean eyed him critically. "Okay. And take this."

He handed Sam a packet of salt and an iron knife. Sam raised his eyebrows.

"Really, Dean?"

"If you didn't notice, we're on a ghost hunt, and Olivia knows a lot about it. We're not taking any chances."

Sam sighed but tucked the items into his jacket pocket. "You know, there's probably salt in her house, if it was absolutely necessary to use it."

"Not if she's a monster. Turn left here," Sam interjected, and Dean swerved dangerously close to the curb as he made a sharp turn. Sam winced again out of the corner of Dean's eye as he was tossed against the right side of the car.

"Sorry," Dean said apologetically, looking at Sam's flushed face. "You okay?"

"Fine."

"You're red," Dean pointed out. "You sure that you cleaned the wound out well?" He leaned over to place a hand on his brother's forehead; Sam slapped it away.

"Look, I'm just warm," Sam insisted. "I told you I cleaned it. I don't do a half-ass job on gunshot wounds."

"Okay," Dean relented, "but text me if it gets worse. A fever isn't going to do us any favors on this hunt."

"I know. Right there," Sam said, pointing to a small white house on the left side of the road. It was very suburban style - the white fence in the back showed that there was a pool, and the grass was well manicured. Sam hastily got out of the car, throwing Dean a brief "thanks" as he straightened his jacket and flannel.

"Hey," Dean called before the door shut. Sam paused, holding the door slightly open.

"Yeah?"

"Have fun," Dean said, and was again forcibly reminded of when he was twenty and driving Sam to his first date. Many things had changed, but the situation was still eerily similar. Sam gave him a bitchy expression and shut the door, turning around, but not before Dean saw a faint smile on his lips.

* * *

"Sam," Olivia said in greeting, opening the door. "Hey. Oh, sorry - Sadie, _down -_ "

"That's alright," Sam said, laughing as a black labrador came rushing over, immediately lunging for his chest with delight. "Hey, Sadie."

"She likes you," Olivia said, laughing as well. "Come on in."

"How are you?" Sam asked, realizing in that moment how very long it had been since he'd been alone with a girl his age. "You… you look nice," he added, smiling at her hair, which was straightened and flowing nicely over her shoulders.

"Thanks," Olivia said, grinning at him. "I brought the books into the living room. Do you want a drink?"

"That'd be great," Sam said warmly, making his way to the table where there were stacks of books. "Wow. Your dad has an impressive collection."

"Yeah," Olivia said, coming over with two beers. "He used to be a history professor at the College of Charleston. That's what got me into these sorts of things."

Sam flipped open the book on top, skimming through the pages. "My dad liked ghost stories too," he said. "My brother and I were raised learning these kinds of stories. I guess that's why we're making articles about them." He laughed, feeling slightly uneasy; he hadn't spoken about his father in a while, not to mention the slight lie made him uncomfortable.

"What'd your dad do? For work?" Olivia asked, taking a sip of her beer.

"He was a mechanic," Sam said, feeling another twinge of regret at the lie. He changed the subject.

"Your place is really nice," he said, glancing around. "Nice view." He nodded towards the back window, which overlooked a thicket of palm trees and a small reservoir.

"It was my brother's old place, actually. He moved in with his fiancé. I like it, though. It's cozy," Olivia said. "I get the sense you're not from here."

"No, but I've passed through several times," Sam said. "I moved around a lot as a kid."

"We did too," Olivia said. "I think I went to four different high schools. Mom was always moving for her job."

Sam wondered vaguely how many high schools he'd been to. He should've kept count, he thought regrettably.

"I was making lunch… you want to eat before we go through the books?" Olivia asked.

"I'd love to," Sam said, and got up to help her in the kitchen. The movement jostled his abdomen and he winced, feeling one of the stitches shift.

Not to mention the nausea. He'd played off the fever for Dean, who certainly wouldn't have let him do this if he'd known how much the gunshot wound was actually hurting.

But Sam didn't dare pick up his phone and text Dean. For one, he couldn't remember the last time he got along well with a girl. And two, people were dying, and they _did_ need this research.

* * *

Dean couldn't help but admire the road leading to Boone Hall. It was lined with trees that formed a canopy over the dirt road, and the sunlight streamed through, speckling the ground. At the end of the road was the house, which stood proudly in the full on sunlight. Smaller cabins lined the road on the way to the mansion; where the slaves had been housed so many years ago. Dean brought the Impala slowly down the road, because there were tourists walking all about the plantation, and parked amongst the other cars in the warm sunlight.

It'd cost him the rest of their money to get into the plantation, so he made a mental note to set up a new credit card scam that night.

He joined a throng of tourists that were outside the slaves' quarters.

"One of the most crucial figures of the Abolitionist Movement was Frederick Douglass," one of the tour guides was saying. "He was known particularly for his anti-slavery literary works and speeches."  
Dean moved behind them and discreetly pulled out the EMF meter, doing a quick scan of the cabin. It instantly lit up, which seemed at first a good thing, but it didn't take him long to discover that every single cabin lit up. Many slaves had died there, and their ghosts were apparently screwing with the EMF.

The tour in the mansion on the plantation was more difficult to check for EMF. He managed to find out from the tour guide that no, they didn't his skills as an electrician because the house's lights never flickered. From another guide he gathered that there weren't any cold spots, after he offered to help them out because he was an HVAC technician.

"Hey," Dean said, approaching a young man who was decked out in a white collared tee shirt, brown bermuda shorts, and knee-high white socks. He was the epitome of a nerd yet had a name tag reading "Paul". Dean decided that he looked more likely than the other tour guides to let him upstairs in the house, which hadn't been permitted on the tour. The upstairs, according to the story of Ammie Jenkins, was where she had been shot by the arrow. Paul glanced up at Dean as he came over.

"Hey. Enjoying your tour?" he asked diplomatically.

"Oh, yeah, it's, uh, insightful," Dean said, landing on the first word that came to mind. "Listen. So, I'm a huge fan of the history of abolition, and I'm really into this sorta stuff."

"As am I," Paul interrupted, giving him a wide grin.

"But it's been my dream to see the plantation house, and they didn't let us upstairs," Dean said, putting discouragement into his voice. "I saved up for thirteen years to come here. I worked at the small diner in my town, washing dishes seven hours a day to buy a plane ticket because this has been my life goal."

He improvised wildly, hoping desperately that he sounded sincere.

"And more than anything I just want to see the entire house. The upstairs. Because I'm an avid reader, and I've read the ghost stories. It's just a crushing feeling to know I've saved this long and I won't be able to see the entire house," Dean said, finishing with a shake to his voice. Years of practice of lying made it easy; Paul didn't question him by the look in his eyes.

"Me too, man," he sympathized. "Me too. I totally get you. But sorry. It's not open to the public."

"Okay, look," Dean said in an undertone, pulling a hundred dollar bill out of his pocket. "How about you talk to your coworkers about letting me up there?"

Paul barely even looked at the bill.

"I like your enthusiasm for history," he said seriously. "But I'm sorry. It's closed off for visitors."

Dean smiled in response, even though he would have liked nothing more than to smack him in the jaw.

"Alright. Thanks for your help," he said, and as soon as Paul walked away he pulled out his phone, shooting Sam a quick text if he wanted to join him in investigating the Boone Hall house that night.

* * *

Sam glanced at his phone to see the text from Dean.

 **Going in Boone Hall tonight at midnight. You want in?**

He rubbed at the wound on his abdomen, which was now only four days old. He felt feverish, and hoped he didn't look it; he was getting along well Olivia.

Speaking of, he and Olivia were sitting across from each other at the table, poring over the books and making conversation. She was easy to talk to, and intelligent as well.

It must have been his luck - the fact that he was with a girl he found that he liked, and now his wound infection was starting to act up. He could feel it, red hot underneath the bandages. He'd changed the bandages just before coming, but already they were feeling soaked with fluid. Definitely not very attractive.

Sam wiped a bit of sweat off of his neck and shivered. The window behind him was open, letting a soft breeze into the room. When he'd arrived, it had felt refreshing; now, it only made him colder inside. He excused himself to the bathroom and shut the door, letting out a sigh.

To his relief, he didn't look feverish in the mirror - at least not enough for Olivia to notice in the dim dining room. There was a pallor to his skin, and a red tint in his cheeks, but nothing more. He wiped the sweat off of his face and leaned away from the mirror, blinking slightly as a wave of vertigo made him lightheaded.

Before he was in the bathroom for too long, he quickly went pee, peeking underneath the bandage of his wound as he went.

The sight of the angry red wound, moistened by the pus and discolored by the purple and yellow rings around it, made him cringe. He wrapped it up again and finished peeing, startled as he went to flush - there was a red tinge of blood in the urine.

 _Shit._

Blood in urine was _never_ a good sign. He could almost hear the echo of his father in his head.

 _Never ignore internal bleeding, ever. You'd be stupid to screw around with that._

Sam inhaled slowly, only to gasp sharply - it hurt to breathe in deeply. He pulled out his phone with shaking fingers and responded to Dean's text.

 **I'm in. Pick me up in an hour?**

He could hang on until then. An hour wasn't much. He considered telling Dean that there was blood in his urine, but he was an adult. Besides, what would he say?

 _Hey, Dean, by the way - I pissed and there was blood._

No, he could wait an hour.

Dean's response came quickly.

 **You're not staying the night?**

Sam could hear the sarcasm through the text, and shook his head, shutting his phone off and exiting the bathroom after feeling satisfied that he didn't look too ill.

Olivia still had her head bent over a book, but she glanced up as Sam returned.

"Hey," she said warmly. There was a slight pause. "We should do this again."

"What? Read together?" Sam teased, smiling.

"Hang out," she said, and all of the sudden she was leaning in to kiss him.

 _Oh, crap,_ was all Sam could think before he found himself kissing her back. Half of him was beaming internally with pleasure that they were getting along so well, and the other half was horrified; _Crap crap crap crap she's going to feel my sweat or how hot I am or the damn fluid-soaked bandage under my shirt crap crap crap crap_ was the general thought flying through his mind.

Olivia didn't pull away; instead, she pulled Sam closer. He leaned into her, kissing her back, and then they broke apart.

"Sorry - I don't usually just do that - um-" Olivia said, blushing profusely.

"No, I… that was great," Sam said, feeling intensely relieved that she hadn't seemed to notice his raving fever. Maybe she'd passed it off as nerves.

They both jumped when the oven alarm went off. Olivia got up quickly to get the cookies out of the oven and Sam took a moment to regain his composure, running his hands through his hair.

Only now he noticed the stabbing pain in his abdomen. He'd twisted slightly in his chair when they kissed and he quickly snuck a glance at the bandage, feeling warm stickiness on his abdomen.

 _Not good._

Olivia came back with a tray of warm chocolate chip cookies and set them onto the table. She slid back onto her chair and took a dainty bite of a cookie, her eyes flickering over to Sam. He picked up a cookie as well and bit into it, ignoring the pain that seemed to be radiating outwards from the wound.

"Hey, these are really good," Sam said, swallowing and trying not to wince as the motion made his gut twist.

He supposed the cookie _did_ taste good, but at the moment he wanted nothing more than to spit it out. A bout of nausea was making him feel more ill than he already felt.

"You okay?" Olivia said after a moment, looking at him with concern.

 _Damn, she noticed._

"Yeah, just a bit warm," he said, even though he could feel his muscles trembling from cold.

"I'll turn down the heat," Olivia offered, getting up. Sam didn't have the heart to tell her that he was actually freezing, and let her turn it down. He hoped to hell that Dean wouldn't show up late and instead opened a new book.

* * *

Dean drove away from the plantation. The sun was getting ready to set and the horizon was bathed in a warm orange glow. He'd checked on his phone before leaving and saw it was nearly forty minutes from the plantation to Olivia's house. If he sped, he'd show up about ten minutes after when Sam asked him to pick him up.

But, that wasn't necessary, he thought with a smirk, and instead slowed down. Sam had better put all of the time he had to good use, he thought, pressing on the brake so that he was going just under the speed limit.

He approached a small greasy diner and on impulse drove Baby in. Sam could get extra time, Dean reasoned, and then they'd have burgers ready to eat before returning to the plantation that night.

* * *

When Olivia wasn't looking, Sam checked his watch. It had been almost an hour since he'd asked Dean to pick him up in an hour.

"Hey…" he began. "We should get together tomorrow."

"Are you heading out?"

"My brother and I need to finish an article that's due at midnight," Sam lied easily. "He'll be picking me up soon, but maybe we could go out for lunch tomorrow?"

He waited, watching her face for her answer. She broke into a smile.

"I'd love to," she said.

Sam shoved down more nausea and forced himself to smile as well.

Olivia's smile suddenly slid off of her face quicker than Sam could've thought humanly possible.

"What?" Sam said, confused.

"You're bleeding!" she said, worry evident in her voice. "Right… there."

Sam glanced down. "Oh! Oh, man. I'll… go take care of this." He winced with regret at his words and stood up to go to the bathroom, almost collapsing at the pain inside of his abdomen when he stood.

"Crap," he groaned, taking another step.

"What'd you do?" Olivia said, instantly at his side and helping him.

"Uh…" Sam found himself at a loss. "I was hunting a deer with my brother, and we had a bit of an accident." He trailed off at the end, closing his eyes as a tidal wave of a headache slammed against the inside of his skull. Vertigo assaulted his vision again and it tunnelled, mercifully coming back fuzzily.

Olivia led him into the bathroom and Sam peeled his shirt upwards, feeling more nauseated when a foul smell came up from the wound.

"Bit of a mood killer?" he joked weakly, pulling back the bloody bandage. It was leaking blood heavily now.

"Oh my God," Olivia said softly. "I'll get the first aid kit." She ran out of the bathroom and Sam could hear her on the stairs. He put a hand to his wound, which was refusing to clot, and found himself repulsed more by how sticky it was.

He barely noticed Olivia returned. "It's okay," he said as Olivia bent by the wound. "I can do it-" He was cut off by choking in his throat, and he whirled around just in time to vomit into the toilet. In the process, he felt the wound tear. There were specks of blood in the vomit.

"I'm calling 911," Olivia's scared voice said behind him.

"What? No, Olivia," Sam said desperately. "Call… my brother. He's on his way. Not 911."

Olivia froze, her hand shaking over her phone. "God, Sam, you have blood in your vomit… and your wound, it's bleeding more…"

"Call Dean," Sam insisted, his ears ringing and vision tunnelling slightly. He shook it off, ducking his head slightly to avoid fainting. Olivia nodded, a terrified expression crossing her face.

 _Definitely my luck_ , Sam thought woozily, looking down with regret at his bloody front.

* * *

Dean was sitting in the parking lot of the diner, blasting his Led Zeppelin cassette tape. It was so loud that he almost missed his phone ringing, and he picked it up automatically, seeing it was Sam.

"Hey. Sorry. I'm on my way. Thought I'd give you two lovebirds some extra time," he said, stuffing a fry into his mouth.

The voice on the other end wasn't what he expected.

"Dean?" The voice was female and scared.

"Uh… Olivia?" Dean said, surprised. "Where's Sam?"

"He's… he's bleeding."

The image of what was happening to the tourists on their hunt flashed through Dean's mind.

"Where?" he demanded, backing the Impala out of the parking lot and nearly hitting an SUV as he swerved back out onto the highway.

"His lower stomach. He says that you two were hunting…?"  
"Crap," Dean said into the phone, pressing on the accelerator. He should've checked Sam's damn infected wound before letting him leave. "Okay. I'll be there in twenty minutes. Clean out the wound and keep his temperature down."

"Got it," Olivia said, her voice slightly more confident. Dean quickly passed the slow car in front of him, weaving his way skillfully through traffic, determined to get to Sam in fifteen minutes.

* * *

"You don't have to clean that," Sam said, breathing heavily. "It's fine, just a bit infected. I can do it." He held out a hand to take the cloth from Olivia, but she didn't budge.

"Your brother said for me to clean it," she told him, and delicately began to wash the wound. Sam bit his lip, nearly drawing blood from it as she cleaned it. It was ten times more painful when it was infected.

Time passed at a strange pace, and suddenly he could hear the front door flying open in what was no doubt Dean's fervor.

"In here!" Olivia called, and within seconds Dean was crouched beside Sam.

"Hey, Dean," Sam said, mustering a smile.

"You really know how to give a girl a good night," Dean snorted. "Let me see."

Olivia backed away and Dean surveyed the wound. "That's bleeding heavily," he noted.

"Really?" Sam said sarcastically.

"Shut up, bitch. This might be hospital worthy."

"Might be? We should take him right now-" Olivia interjected, but Dean cut her off.

"We'll give it a couple of hours. If you pass out, I'm taking you to the hospital. Deal?" Dean asked, helping Sam sit up. Sam nodded, gritting his teeth.

"At least we got good research for the article," Sam said as Dean helped him stand. "I can't thank you enough, Olivia."  
"It was fun," she said, still looking a bit scared.

"We still on for tomorrow?" he asked, half-joking, half-serious.

To his disappointment, Olivia looked more scared. "I had fun, Sam, but…" she trailed off. "I'll let you get back to writing articles with your brother."

Dean glanced from Olivia to Sam, apparently noticing the awkward tension. He nudged Sam forward, and Sam almost stumbled, his head spinning unsteadily.

"Careful, Sammy," Dean muttered, and he felt his brother's hand hovering just above his shoulder in case he fell.

"I'm good, Dean," Sam bit out, and made eye contact with Olivia, offering her a wan smile as he passed. She didn't smile warmly in return, not like she had earlier.

* * *

"Drink some water."

"I'm not thirsty, Dean."

"My ass. You almost died four days ago and now that wound reopened," Dean said, handing Sam a small cup of water. "Drink half of that and I'll leave you alone."

They were in the motel room. The hunt was on pause; they'd return to Boone Hall later.

Sam obliged Dean's request, throwing the water down and leaning back resolutely in bed. He could feel Dean watching him and turned away, opening up his laptop and browsing the Internet for hunts even though they hadn't finished the one they were on now.

"Look, Sammy," Dean said from the other end of the room. "I'm sorry that happened-"

"I'm okay, Dean," Sam snapped. "We don't need to talk about this."

There was silence before Dean went back to cleaning his gun. Neither of them spoke for another half an hour.

* * *

It had been a half an hour since Dean had tried to broach the subject with Sam. He could see it was bothering his brother - the sullen expression, the lack of talking. He rattled the pill bottle, which had only one pill left, and then tossed it at Sam.

"Take one," he instructed.

Sam didn't take it.

"How's it feel?" he asked. It had only been a couple of hours since they'd returned from Olivia's and Dean had stitched him up again.

"Like crap," Sam said, picking at the wound.

"Dude, stop. You'll pop the stitches," Dean said angrily. "Are you stupid?"

Sam didn't answer him.

"Take the damn pill."

Again, no answer.

Dean stood up. "You know what? I get it. This job sucks. It sucks that when we finally want to have a good time, our wounds bleed through our damn shirts."

Sam didn't bother looking up at him.

"But you know what sucks more? Seeing your brother refuse to take his friggin' pills and pick at his wounds because he's moping over what he could have had with a girl."

Sam now looked at him in angry surprise.

"So you can continue this pissy attitude, and put this hunt on hold longer," Dean continued, "Or we can get this over with, leave this town, and never return. I know that it sucks, dude. I'm sorry. But the sooner we can get out of here, the better."

He turned away and abruptly went into the bathroom to shower, giving Sam some alone time.

When he came out, Sam was asleep.

And the pill he'd told Sam to take was gone.

 _Like I said - I have zero relationship experience, so forgive me if that was unrealistic._

 _I'm so grateful for everyone who has favorited and followed, and to everyone who was kind enough to leave a review!  
I'm in need of prompts, so please, please, please leave me one in a review if you'd like :) Thank you all so much! _


	16. Grace

**Prompt:** AllShallFade777 gave me this AMAZING prompt, thank you so much for it! Something with Jack. He doesn't have/use healing powers, does he? Disregard if there's some canon reason he doesn't that I've forgotten, but powerful as he is, you'd think he'd be capable of it, so: A Sam, Dean, and Jack (and Cas, if you can work it) hunt, in which Sam gets hurt and Jack wants to try to heal him. Dean isn't thrilled with the idea since in all the times Sam has tried to help Jack learn to control his powers, Sam has never actually been the test subject before, but Sam is okay with it and Jack thinks he can do it, so they let him try. It doesn't go so great. Something interferes or Jack just doesn't know what he's doing and it makes things worse. But since Jack is still awesome, he gets to epically take down whatever it is they're hunting to kind of make up for it.

 **Warnings:** Nothing more than a bit of profanity.

 **Set:** Early-ish season 13, when Jack's powers are developing and Dean trusts Jack.

* * *

The Impala had been silent for much too long.

Cas was sitting behind him in the backseat. He had been in the same exact position the entire car ride - his back rigidly straight, and his head turned to the left to look out the window - and he hadn't spoken one word. To anyone else, Cas would have looked angry, but Dean was aware that the angel was simply enjoying the car ride.

Jack, sitting next to Cas, had been preoccupied with Sam's phone for the past few hours. Sam had showed him several apps on his phone, and demonstrated how to play them. Jack had been immediately fascinated by the concept and had barely looked up since Sam had handed him the phone.

To Dean's right, Sam had his nose buried in a book. It was a satisfying sight; it'd been a long time since he'd seen Sam read, what with their mother still lost in the other world. Sam had seemed depressed lately. It gave Dean a bit of comfort that his brother still enjoyed reading. Even though the book looked horribly boring - it was a history of the second World War - it was so naturally Sam-like.

Dean rummaged in his box of cassette tapes and popped in some Led Zeppelin to disturb the deafening silence of the car.

The opening notes of "Kashmir" were a bit louder than Dean had anticipated. All three Sam, Jack, and Cas jumped in their seats, and Sam automatically leaned forward and turned the volume down to hardly audible.

"Sorry," Dean said lamely, pushing on the accelerator a bit harder. He'd begun to slow down without realizing.

Sam gave him a pissed expression and went back to his book. Dean turned the volume up as much as he dared without Sam leaning over to turn it down again.

"What music is this?" Jack asked from the backseat, his expression contorted into one of confusion.

"Classic rock," Cas informed Jack before Dean could answer.

Jack contemplated the beat of the music for a moment. "I prefer the other music," he decided finally.

"What's better than classic rock?" Dean asked, frowning.

"Sam showed me classical music."

Dean shook his head and glanced at Sam, who hadn't looked up from his book again. "Hey."

Sam didn't look up.

Dean slugged his arm. "Sam. Check the map."  
"Hm? Oh." Sam set his book down and pulled out the map. "Uh, you still have around a hundred miles before the next turn."

Dean sighed and sped the Impala up to twenty above the speed limit. It was an old backcountry road, and there hadn't been any other cars for miles.

"You're going fast," Cas noted from the backseat.

"Yep," Dean agreed. He increased the speed a bit more.

"Dean-" Sam started to say, but then he glanced at the map again and winced. "Actually, go ahead. Maybe we can get to Worland before nightfall."

Jack was frowning in the backseat. "But you two could… _die_ if we crashed."

"Cas could heal us," Dean reasoned.

"Not if you're _dead_ ," Cas interjected. "Dean, I agree with Jack. You should slow down."

"Trust me. We want to make it to the next town before nightfall," Sam said. "Or we'll have to sleep in the car."

"And while you two might be fine if you take a night off from sleeping, Sam and I will have to cram ourselves onto the seats," Dean added.

"Oh." Jack went back to Sam's phone, apparently no longer interested.

Dean tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. The road was perfectly straight - no curves, no hills. The sun was setting and the Impala cast a long shadow backwards over the road.

It took about an hour and a half for them to reach Worland, Wyoming. By the time they pulled into a motel, the sky had darkened and the town was quiet. Sam was asleep against the window, Jack was still buried in Sam's phone, and Cas was still watching the view outside the window.

"I'll grab a room. You guys can wait out here," Dean said, stepping out of the car stiffly. It had been a long thirteen hour drive. Sam had taken the wheel the previous day for a long drive, so it was only fair for Dean to drive to Wyoming.

Besides, there was no way that he'd let Cas or Jack drive his Baby.

He returned to the car with two keys in hand. It was more convenient to get two rooms with a queen bed for each of them; they were hunting what Sam predicted were several okamis - a particularly nasty monster he and Sam had encountered a very few amount of times. Jack and Cas would be in the room on the end; he and Sam would take the room next door.

Dean opened up Sam's door to wake his brother up. Sam toppled forward, almost falling out of the car entirely.

"We're here," Dean said unnecessarily, turning and walking away with a smirk on his face as Sam muttered something inaudible at him.

Cas stopped outside the motel doors. "What time are we beginning the hunt tomorrow?" he asked, his voice dead serious and forehead creased with concern.

"I dunno," Dean said, glancing at his watch. "Early, probably. Already five people have died. We can't risk anyone else getting hurt."

Sam unlocked their motel door. "I'll be up around six," he said. "We can leave here around seven."

"Dude. I don't wake up that early," Dean cut in.

"People are dying," Sam reminded him, stepping into the motel room and throwing his duffel onto the bed.

Dean grumbled behind him and followed. "Alright," he conceded over his shoulder to Cas. "Seven."

"I will be ready at that time," Cas said firmly, and turned to join Jack in the other motel room.

"We should hit the hay," Sam said pointedly as Dean slung back onto the bed closer to the door with a beer in hand.

"I've been driving for hours. Give me a few."

Sam reluctantly left the light on and went into the bathroom. The sound of the shower turning on filled the motel room with white noise. Dean sipped at his beer contentedly; somehow, hunts always made him feel better about the problem of the week.

It helped keep his mind off of the fact that his mother was lost in Apocalypse World.

Sam had once called it sublimation, he remembered.

The walls of the motel were thin and he could hear Cas and Jack's voices, though he couldn't make out what they were saying. There was the distant sound of frustration in Cas's voice and then the television turned on. It was quite loud and it took a solid minute of more frustrated voices for them to figure out how to turn it down.

Sam emerged from the bathroom with his hair hanging wet around his shoulders. "Alright," he said. "I'm turning in."

That was synonymous to, "You should go to bed too, Dean."

Rather than argue, Dean obliged and set his beer on the nightstand. He felt wide-awake but shut off the light to let Sam sleep before their morning.

It turned out that he must've been more tired than he thought, because he ended up falling asleep within ten minutes of lying down.

* * *

"Okay," Sam said, turning around to face Dean, Jack, and Cas as they drove to the large stretch of woods on the other side of town. "So, we're going up against okamis. I'm guessing there'll be ten to twelve of them. They usually go after lone women, but they'll see us as a threat and definitely won't hesitate to attack."

Dean didn't take his eyes off of the road but interrupted Sam. "And Jack, even though they can't technically kill you, they can still rip up your flesh, and I can tell you firsthand that having your skin torn up is not a fun experience. So be careful," he said bluntly, catching Jack's slightly horrified expression in the mirror.

Sam handed a knife to Jack and Cas each. "These are bamboo daggers blessed by a shinto priest. These are the only things that will kill them."

"Bobby killed one with a woodchipper once," Dean added. "But we'll stick to the daggers, since they're more reliable. And we don't have any woodchippers."

They arrived at the edge of the woods. It was a vast wooded area. It wasn't particularly dense, but the treetops were high and thick, obstructing much of the sunlight. Dean was reminded suddenly of Purgatory, and he quickly abandoned the thought. It was relatively easy to do after years of practice.

He opened up the trunk and rummaged for his duffel bag. He threw in his gun, loaded with silver rounds, and also a first aid kit; on second thought, he discarded the kit. With Cas with them, they wouldn't need it.

"We don't need silver bullets," Jack said as he watched Dean pack the bag. "I thought we only needed these daggers?" He wasn't questioning Dean's decision, Dean noticed immediately, but was expressing his confusion.

"Just in case," Dean told him. "You never know when a hunt could go downhill."

Jack watched him in silence for a few moments before speaking. "Do many hunts go downhill?"

"We've got experience with downhill hunts, yeah," Dean said, slinging his bag over his shoulder and slamming the trunk closed.

"Alright. We should stick together," Sam said as they entered the woods. It was a sunny day, but within minutes they were in the dark shadows of the trees. "Okamis are similar to werewolves, but harder to kill. Remember that it's not dead until you stab it several times."

Dean looked at Sam sideways. "Dude. This forest is huge. We should split up, cover more ground."

Sam looked at Dean with disbelief. "Dean - these are okamis. We've only encountered them a few times. There could be at least ten of them, and they're fast, strong-"

"Fine," Dean interrupted. "But let's get a move on. There are several hiking trails and the okamis' hunting grounds seem pretty wide."

The four of them trekked deeper into the woods. There were about six different hiking trails; four of which were longer than two miles.

"When'd you hunt your first okami?" Jack asked suddenly, surprising Dean slightly. It was the type of question few people had ever asked him.

"Not too long ago. Until several years ago, okamis were only in Japan, until Eve - the monster mother of monsters - starting spawning okamis over here," Dean said vaguely, remembering the freak monsters they'd encountered that year. "It was sometime before I went to Purgatory."

"What's Purgatory?"

"It's a long story," Dean responded, having little interest in discussing anything involving Purgatory.

The landscape suddenly changed. Though still thick with trees, the ground was now sloping upwards and the dirt on the ground turned into tall grass.

"So how are we doing this?" Sam said, hitching his bag up higher onto his shoulders. "Jack uses his grace to stop the okamis, and then Cas, Dean, and I stab them?"  
"If Jack can hold them all off," Dean agreed. "If not, we improvise."

Cas frowned. "That's not a very reliable plan."

"It's kept Sam and I alive for a couple decades now," Dean reasoned.

"We've died, Dean," Sam said, his forehead creased.

"But not on a typical run-of-the-mill hunt."

"Shh," Jack said suddenly, coming to a complete stop. "I hear something."

Dean and Sam tensed, lifting their knives. Cas surveyed the horizon, his eyes narrowing. For a pregnant pause they all stood, hardly daring to breathe.

And then chaos descended - literally. Four okamis dropped out of the tree above them, landing like bombs onto their small group. One landed right next to Dean and wasted no time in taking a ferocious swipe at his chest.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, seeing his brother's stunned expression as his shirt tore and blood immediately blossomed over his chest. He tackled the okami, thrusting his blade into its chest seven times. On the last stab, the okami's eyes darkened and it went limp. Satisfied that it was dead, Sam whirled around to help Jack and Cas.

Jack had suspended the other three okamis in midair. Golden light was rippling outwards from his palm, but his glowing eyes were squinted and even from afar Sam could see the beads of sweat gathering on his face.

Cas was in the process of stabbing the okami on the far left. Sam ran harmlessly through Jack's radiating grace and took on the last two okamis until their jaws went slack. Jack released the monsters and they fell limply to the ground, dead.

"Dean! You okay?!" Sam ran to his brother's side, bending down next to him.

"Crap," Dean said, breathing hard. "Crap, that hurts." His eyes rolled backwards and he passed out. Sam immediately went for his pulse; it was already weak.

Sam peeled back his shirt and couldn't help but gasp at the amount of blood coming out of his brother's chest. "Cas - he's losing a lot of blood -"

Cas wordlessly bent next to Dean and placed his hands on his chest. A soft glow emanated from his hands and encompassed the mangled skin, and like magic it knitted itself back together.

"Man," Dean groaned, rubbing his chest. "That sucked."

"That was too close," Sam said, looking at Dean with concern. "Dude. You looked like roadkill. You sure you're good?"

"Yeah," Dean said, cautiously rubbing a hand down his chest. "Yeah, I'm good." He looked up at Cas. "Can't thank you enough, man. How many times have you saved our asses now?"

"As many times as you've saved mine, I'm sure," Cas said diplomatically.

"Guys, there could be more," Jack warned. "I think I can hear them."

As soon as the words left his mouth, there was movement to their left. Sam turned, facing them with his knife raised. At least seven more okamis were approaching them.

"Shit," he heard Dean say softly from behind him, and as the sound of sticks snapping rang through the silence, Sam quickly turned around to see ten more okamis behind them.

More came from their right. They were surrounded.

Sam did a brief count in his head. There were twelve snarling okamis circling them, at a minimum. He felt Dean at his back; they resumed the positions they were so accustomed to after many years of hunting. Back to back, they waited for the monsters to make the first move.

Sam could feel Jack tensing on his left.

"Jack, save your energy," he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. "There're too many. You can't take them all."

"I can try," he heard Jack say. Before Sam could grab his arm, Jack ran forward.

Pandemonium erupted. Hoping desperately that Jack was able to keep the seven okamis on the left at bay, Sam met the two oncoming okamis in the middle, stabbing wildly.

One on two weren't impossible odds, but slowly the okamis gained the upper hand.

He lasted maybe two minutes, stabbing them whenever he could, before they got the upper hand. He fell to the ground, desperately backing up. One thing was always the same on a hunt - don't fall. One of the okamis fell to the ground, dead, as he thrust his knife into its heart. It fell forward with Sam's knife stuck in its chest, and Sam fumbled underneath its chest for the knife. The okami sensed his struggle and lunged forward, pinning him to the ground.

"Dean!" he yelled, and behind the okami he saw his brother whip his head around towards his call.

"Hang on Sam!" Dean yelled, preoccupied with two okamis on him. Sam strained for his knife as the okami took a clawed hand and raked it down his face. He cried out, feeling the warm blood seep down the left side of his face.

Though his mind was reeling with the sensation of his bleeding face, he yanked the knife out from under the dead okami and plunged it into the chest of the okami on top of him.

It must have been the seventh stab, because the okami keeled over, dead as a doornail. Sam eased his breaths and sat up, getting ready to join in the fight again. Jack was on his knees, hand still outward but shaking with the effort of restraining the okamis. Cas and Dean were already on them, working their way into the middle of the okamis. Sam stood up unsteadily and took the last okami. With seven swift stabs to the heart, they were all dead.

"Dean," Sam exhaled, falling to his knees as the adrenaline quickly left him.

"Sam!" Dean bent by Sam's side, helping him from falling over completely. Sam had a small moment of amusement; they'd reversed roles from minutes ago.

"I'm fine," Sam said, shaking his head to get rid of the spinning sensation. "I'm fine."

"He got your neck," Cas said, and placed his hands on Sam's face. Sam waited for the warmth to spread through his body and for the pain to go away, but it didn't come.

"What is it?" he croaked after a moment, wincing at the feeling of bloody still trickling out of the wound. He placed a hand to the wound; it was running from the top of his cheek to halfway down his neck.

Flowing, he amended. Not trickling. Judging by the dizzying sensation and lack of clotting, it was flowing heavily.

"Cas?" Dean said impatiently. "What is it?"

"I need time," Cas said, his voice frustrated. "I just used much of my grace to heal you, Dean. This requires more grace than I can offer. It'll be at least four hours until I can-"

"We don't have four hours!" Dean exploded.

"Dean," Sam said. "I'm fine, really. It's not bleeding that much-"

"He almost nicked your jugular," Dean said, ripping his flannel off and pressing it against the wound. White hot pain flared from the top to the bottom and Sam's hand leapt to it.

"Ow," he said woozily.

Dean crouched next to him. "Sam? How you doing?"

"I'm…" Sam was about to say fine but a wave of nausea passed through him. He placed his head between his knees, willing himself to not pass out.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice was concerned. Sam lifted his head and managed a wan smile.

"All good," he said, even though he felt completely the opposite. His vision suddenly began to dot in front of his face, and the edges of his vision blurred and darkened.

 _Okay. Don't pass out. Don't pass out._

He focused on Dean, trying to stay awake.

"Call an ambulance, Cas," Dean was saying.

"We're in the middle of the woods, Dean, it'll take too long-"  
"I don't care! If you can't heal him, we need a paramedic! I didn't bring the first aid kit-"

"Wait - Dean - I can help." Jack was above Sam, his face hopeful and anxious. "I think I can heal him."

"There's no way in hell you're-"

Sam interrupted him with a great effort. "Dean, let him try."

Dean turned to Sam with an incredulous expression. "He's never tried healing anyone before. No way are you going to be the test subject."

Sam's vision darkened more. "Jack, you can try. I trust you," he said, then added, "I think I'm going to pass out."

The last thing he heard was Dean's panicked voice before Jack's determined face appeared in his vision.

And then, the woods around him vanished altogether.

* * *

Sam's last phrase was a slur. Sensing what was about to happen, Dean leaned his brother back as he passed out.

"He's not coherent - did you call the ambulance, Cas?" Dean said, pressing his flannel tighter against Sam's face and neck.

"Dean, I think I can do this," Jack said from Sam's right. Dean looked into the nephilim's eyes; they were round and confident. "I can heal him."

Dean looked from Cas to Jack to Sam.

"The ambulance is on the way," Cas assured Dean. "But it'll be awhile before it gets here. I believe Jack can help."

"You've got to be kidding me," Dean grumbled, looking at his unconscious brother who was now about to become the guinea pig for Jack's healing powers. He restrained himself from holding back Jack, instead backing up slightly.

"Just focus on the damaged molecules," Cas instructed from the side. "You can feel them mend as you go. When you feel each molecule heal, move onto another one."

The instruction seemed absurdly vague to Dean, but Jack nodded with understanding.

"Hang on-" Dean began, but Jack cut him off.

"I can do this, Dean," he said.

Jack slowly brought both palms to Sam's face, gently resting them in the blood. Dean waited with bated breath as a soft golden glow radiated from Jack's hands. Even from five feet away, Dean could feel the grace, and it was beautiful. It felt like comfort, warmth, safety, and without realizing his muscles relaxed.

Jack's face was screwed in concentration, and slowly the tearing on Sam's face began to heal. It wasn't quick like when Cas did it, but labored.

Cas had experienced hands, Dean realized for the first time.

Jack made his way slowly down the wound, repairing it with heavy concentration. His eyes remained shut the entire time, but his eyes were visibly twitching behind his lids. Dean kept a hand on Sam's wrist, monitoring his pulse in case something were to go wrong.

The last of the wound began to seal back together. Dean watched with a bit of admiration as the glow overwhelmed the last of the heavily bleeding rips in Sam's skin.

"You did it, Jack," Cas said, a note of wonder in his voice. "Sam's healed."

Jack didn't seem to notice; he was still exuding grace, if not more than before. His eyes were shut tightly and sweat was dripping from his brow.

"Jack, that's en-" Cas began to say, but he didn't finish. They were all thrown backwards as a sudden blast of energy rippled outwards from Jack. Dean rolled backwards, coming to a stop at the base of a large tree.

"What the hell happened?" he said brusquely, standing up quickly to see what had happened. His stomach plummeted as he realized Jack was still kneeling in the same spot, but Sam wasn't there.

"Where's Sam?" he demanded, but sudden movement in the corner of his vision answered his question.

Sam's prone body was lying at a strange angle fifteen feet from where he'd been before. And sprinting towards him in an animal-like ferocity were two okamis, their teeth bared and eyes flashing.

"No!" Dean yelled, beginning to run over, but he was pushed to the ground as a sudden wave of energy passed by him.

He turned to the source of the energy to see Jack standing, his eyes glowing golden. His palm was extended and light was beaming out of it.

"Get away from him!" Jack shouted at the hissing monsters, and with a blinding surge of energy the okamis fell to the ground, dead, without having been stabbed seven times by the bamboo knives. Dean stared in a stunned silence before his legs prompted him to move and he made his way to Sam.

"Sammy, you alright?" Dean asked, dropping to his knees beside his brother. He twisted around to see Jack approaching. The kid's face was contorted with fear. "Jack - what happened?!"

"I'm sorry," Jack whispered. "I didn't mean to-"

"Cas, what happened?!" Dean implored, having no patience for Jack's apology. Cas looked stricken.

"He used more grace than necessary," was the angel's answer. Dean waited expectantly; when neither Jack nor Cas said anything else, he asked angrily, "Well? What the hell does that mean?"

Cas bent and placed a hand against Sam's forehead. "There's too much grace. It's dangerous for a human to be exposed to so much celestial power. It's similar to an high voltage shock."

Dean felt for Sam's neck, searching for a pulse. He breathed a sigh of relief upon finding it, though it was too fast and weak.

"We have to get out of here," Dean said, glancing around in case any more okamis were coming. "Jack, can you fly us?"

Jack shook his head. To Dean's surprise, the kid's face was tear-streaked. "I can't. I can only fly myself."

"Dean?" Sam's voice was so quiet that Dean almost didn't hear it.

"Sammy? You okay?" Dean said immediately.

Sam blinked at him, looking dazed. "Good," he said finally.

Dean's stomach lurched. The response was slow and didn't fit the question very well. He helped Sam get into a sitting position.

"What do we do?" he asked Cas, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "He can't stand-"

"I can stand," Sam protested feebly. "I'm fine, Dean."

Dean pointed an angry finger at him. "You're hurt. You don't get a say."

Cas considered Sam. "In case there are more okamis, we should leave here. I should be able to heal Sam from the effects of the grace in a couple of hours."

Jack was still apologizing profusely.

"Jack, it's alright," Dean said gruffly as he and Cas helped Sam stand, supporting him on either side. "You healed the bleeding, didn't you?"

"I screwed up," Jack said, hanging his head. "I should've realized I was using too much grace… I didn't notice - I'm sorry, Dean -"

"Forget it, kid," Dean said, focusing on Sam. "I'm not mad at you."

Sam looked at Dean with confusion. "Where… are we?"

"Okami hunt. You just got zapped by a bit too much grace," Dean said, instantly making his voice more composed for Sam's sake. "We're getting out of here."

Sam blinked at Dean, his eyelids half-closed as he stumbled along despite being practically carried by Dean and Cas.

"Feel… weird," Sam said, gripping Dean tighter. "It hurts."

"I know. Cas is gonna extract it as soon as he gets his mojo back. Hang in there, dude," Dean said, keeping his tone as relaxed as possible as Sam's breaths became more labored.

Sam suddenly stopped short, going limp.

"Shit," he muttered, catching his brother's weight and hoisting him higher so that he and Cas could continue moving.

They'd taken maybe three steps when Sam suddenly twitched under Dean's arm. First it was a small tremor, then a larger shake, until he was convulsing.

"Cas! He's seizing!" Dean shouted, lowering Sam and clearing the surrounding area. A horribly vivid memory of this happening in the past on multiple occasions flashed through his mind.

 _Ignore that._

"What do we do?" Dean demanded, scrubbing his face with his hand. "Cas!"

Cas was silent, watching Sam with extreme concern showing in his furrowed brow. "We need to let it pass. Humans can't function with that much grace surging through their bodies. Unless Jack can extract it, we have to wait until I can-"

"Dean, I can do it."

Dean whirled around towards Jack. He glanced back at Sam, who was still seizing.

"You can trust me, Dean," Jack said, his jaw set and eyes determined. "I know what to do now."

Dean didn't answer. He could feel wetness gathering in his eyes against his will; there was nothing else to do. They were stuck in these damn woods, far from the help of an ambulance.

"Dean, you have to let him die. Sam's fading," Cas shouted suddenly from Sam's side.

Dean nodded without looking at Jack. "I swear, if you-"

"I can do this," Jack said, and Dean wondered for a moment if he was convincing himself or Dean of that.

Jack bent down next to Sam and resumed the same expression he'd had earlier. Dean clutched Sam's arm tightly, ready to help his brother the moment he stopped seizing.

A different sort of glow surrounded Jack. It was the same warmth, but this time it felt like it was being sucked away - one very small part of Dean briefly felt disappointed at the sensation. It was like the grace was being vacuumed away from under his touch.

For ten seconds Jack had his hands pressed on Sam's chest, when suddenly Sam's eyes flew open and he let out a strangled yell.

"It's done, Jack," Cas said firmly, and this time, Jack heard. He pulled away, breathing a bit heavily.

"Sam?!" Dean said, helping him sit up. "You okay?"

Sam sat there for a moment, his eyes taking in Dean, Cas, and then Jack.

"What the hell just happened?" he said weakly, feeling his face which was no longer bleeding.

Dean exhaled. The adrenaline hadn't quite left him yet and he could feel himself on edge.  
"Just another hunt, Sammy," he said, cracking a smile. "Just another run-of-the-mill hunt."

 _Wow. Sorry for the incredibly abrupt ending, but I've been dawdling way too long and needed to get this out onto the net. This was a really good prompt, but I feel that I didn't do it justice, so maybe I'll tackle it again. I take that back - I REALLY didn't do it justice. This is definitely not one of my proudest pieces, but at least the prompt was fun! Thanks, AllShallFade777! I apologize for the vagueness of this chapter. It just got away from me, you know?Thanks for reading anyway!  
Again, I am in need of Hurt!Sam prompts. If you have anything that you'd like to be written, please let me know in a review!_


	17. Fall

**A/N:** AllShallFade777 gave me an amazing prompt and I've turned it into a multi-chapter fic that I'm currently working on (it's called Unforeseen if you want to check it out!) so thank you AllShallFade777 for such an excellent prompt! This is, admittedly, the reason I haven't updated this story in so long - I'm really sorry for the long wait!

 **Prompt:** This prompt is from a Guest review:

Sam falls from a large height doing something unrelated to a hunt.

 **Set:** Season 7, set in between 7x03 and 7x04 at Rufus's cabin in Whitefish, Montana. It's after Sam and Dean return to the cabin following the kitsune Amy events.

* * *

Bobby Singer was finally going to bed at three in the morning after a long night of research. He'd spent ten hours straight trying to find any Leviathan activity, running purely on cold coffee, and had come up with nothing.

When he glanced at the clock and saw that it was almost three in the morning, and that the sun would be rising within a few hours, that was his cue to give up for the night. He didn't bother with brushing his teeth or changing out of his clothing; instead, he flopped into bed and closed his eyes.

Perhaps a total of four seconds of lying in bed had passed when a rumble woke him up. Bobby reluctantly opened his eyes, feeling the tug of sleep and almost giving into it.

The rumble sounded again, this time louder. It was accompanied by the scrabble of tires on dirt and the very faint sound of Lynyrd Skynyrd pumping through the speakers. Headlight beams swung through his window, the yellow square moving across his wall as the vehicle outside turned the corner.

"Dammit," Bobby muttered to himself; the door was locked and he'd have get up to let those two numskulls in. They must have driven straight back from the kitsune event, in which Sam had disappeared to investigate the ice pick killer.

The rumble of the Impala's engine shut off suddenly. The silence of night resumed, the crickets chirping distantly, until they were interrupted again by the loud creak of the car's doors, which were followed by heavy slams.

Bobby rolled out of bed to go unlock the front door.

Sure enough, Sam and Dean were waiting for him. Dean's face was stoic, the worry of the past few weeks seemingly etched into his face permanently. Sam, on the other hand, looked slightly abashed. Bobby didn't want to think about Dean's wrath after Sam had taken off on his own for the hunt.

He stalked back to his room, hearing the boys bicker over who got the shower first. That gave him some relief; Dean couldn't be very angry with Sam if he was bothering to argue over the shower. It was the opposite of fun when the boys weren't on good terms - the entire house would be filled with a cold tension.

Fortunately, that didn't seem to be the case, Bobby thought as he slowly made his way back to his bed.

* * *

"Sam. Toss me the orange juice."

Sam gave Dean an incredulous look. "I just sat down," he said, gesturing at his buttered toast. "You get it."

"My leg is broken."  
"You were the one to take off the cast early," Sam shot back, picking up his toast and taking a bite of it.

Dean glared at him resolutely. "I took the damn thing off because _you_ left. What if you were lying in a ditch somewhere? It was stupid, Sam."

"I can handle it, Dean. I _did_ handle it," Sam said as Bobby came into the kitchen. He looked at them warily.

"If you boys are at each other's throats, I can leave," he said pointedly.

"No, it's fine, Bobby," Dean said quickly. "Sam made toast, if you want some."

Bobby took a slice of toast and spread strawberry jam on it. "I've got a few jobs for you boys."

"Close by?" Sam asked, relieved. A hunt would distract both him and Dean from what had happened with Amy.

"Not a hunting job. House jobs," Bobby clarified.

"House job?" Dean said, mystified.

"Chores. Rufus's cabin is handy, but it ain't exactly in tip-top shape," Bobby said. "I've got a list of things that need getting done."  
"Aw, man," Dean said, a pained expression on his face. "I wish I could help you, Bobby, but my leg is killing me. I don't think I can-"

"Already thought of that, gimp. The kitchen sink and upstairs sink are leaking. You can fix those," Bobby said, setting a toolbox onto the kitchen table heavily. Dean looked at it with disdain.

"I don't know how to a fix a sink," he tried, but Bobby snorted in response.

"Don't try to trick me, boy. I've seen you fix that car of yours. You can fix a leaky sink."

"What do you need me to do?" Sam asked, standing up to put the butter back in the fridge.

"Two things, if you don't mind, Sam, since Dean's leg _is_ still healing," Bobby said, nodding at Dean. At this, Dean's frown vanished, replaced by a gleeful smirk.

"Yeah, I don't mind," Sam said quickly.

"There's all sorts of dead bugs and dirt on the floor. And the chimney needs to be cleaned. The broom and cleaning brush are in the closet."

"Yeah, sure," Sam said quickly, ignoring Dean's satisfied expression that Sam would be working harder and longer than he.

"Look at you, Bobby. You must've been a maid in a past life," Dean said, grinning.

"Shut up. I'll be at the laundromat. The linens here are disgusting," Bobby said, and he exited the room.

"Well," Dean said, prying open the toolbox. "I'll poke around under the sinks. You might as well start sweeping, Cinderella."

Sam glared at him. "Anything to get away from you."

"But don't take off again."

With that, the jest turned to ice. Sam felt his smile slide off his face. "I'll be in the other room," he said, and left.

The broom was in the closet, just as Bobby had said. Sam exhaled slightly at the sight of the entire first floor as well as the upstairs to sweep, and started under the couch. Tightly packed balls of dust and decomposing insects were swept out.

He could hear Dean tinkering in the kitchen under the sink.

"You missed a spot."

Sam flinched but didn't turn at the sound of Lucifer's voice.

"Or… you can just ignore that spot," Lucifer said when Sam moved to the other side of the living room. "I get it, Sam. I'm not into the housekeeping stuff either."

Sam swept a bit harder than necessary and nearly knocked over the end table. He steadied it with his right hand.

"Remember that time I stabbed out your gut with the handle of a broomstick?" Lucifer mused. "It took about two hundred stabs to get it through you. That one was interesting."

"Shut up," Sam said quietly, for fear that Dean would hear him. He dug his thumb into the scar of his left hand and mercifully, Lucifer vanished.

There was a sudden metallic clatter from the kitchen followed by the distinct sound of water and Dean swearing. Sam peered through the doorway to see water going everywhere and Dean furiously attacking the pipe of the sink with the screwdriver.

Sam shook his head, returning to the sweeping. The day was extremely hot and it wasn't even nine in the morning. Rufus's cabin was like an oven - it heated up quickly and because of the cover of thick trees, the air was stagnant. Sam cracked open a window once he moved upstairs because the thick air was stifling.

"It's almost ninety degrees out," Lucifer observed. He'd returned. "What's worse, Sam? Ninety degrees or negative two hundred degrees?"

Sam remembered the cold of Hell. He dug his thumb into his palm again. Lucifer flickered but didn't disappear.

"Want me to cool things off?" The devil snapped his fingers and frost began to creep over the window as the temperature in the room plunged to Arctic-like levels. Sam continued to sweep under the bed, his breaths now visible in the cold air. The water on the nightstand next to the bed froze, cracking loudly.

He wrenched his thumb downward, into his hand as hard as he could, and Lucifer vanished, only to return moments later.

"Cold… but not as cold as it got in the Cage," Lucifer said. "You can wear my coat if you want, Sam."

Sam shivered but didn't even look at Lucifer, choosing instead to grab his own jacket from where it was hanging on the wall. He pulled it on, zipping it up against the cold. There was snow falling softly from the ceiling, and icicles crept down along the walls. The air grew sharp and painful to draw in, and Sam pinched his scar so tightly that it drew a bit of blood.

Lucifer vanished, along with the ice and snow. The heat returned to the room at a startling rate, and Sam realized only then that he was sweating profusely. He ripped the jacket off, tossed it onto the bed, and swept the broom under the dresser.

* * *

Dean finished with the first sink and was limping his way upstairs as Sam left the smallest bedroom.

"You fix the leak?" Sam asked.

"Yep," Dean said shortly, before pausing. "You know how to clean a chimney?"

"Yeah," was Sam's quick reply. There was silence between them. "I really am sorry, Dean. About taking off for the kitsune."

"It's done," Dean said gruffly. "I don't care."

Sam tried again, but Dean was not in the mood to discuss feelings. His clothing was soaked and his hair was sticking to his skin with sweat, the cabin was getting painfully hot, and he wasn't in the mood to fix another sink.

He kicked his leg out so that it was straight and sat down next to the sink, surveying the leak. It was coming out of the back of the pipe, dripping slowly down the edge.

He heard the sound of the ladder hitting the house, followed by Sam's rising footsteps.

Dean continued to work at the sink. He had more success with this one than the first since it didn't break on him, and got the leaking under control within fifteen minutes.

He could hear the sound of Sam working at the top of the chimney; there was a faint rustling sound. It was drowned out several minutes later by Bobby's truck as he returned from the laundromat.

"You fix them already?" Bobby asked, surprised, as he came in with arms full of sheets.

"Both of them," Dean confirmed. He opened up the fridge from where he was leaning against the counter. "Beer?"

"Thanks."

Dean tossed him the beer and took one for himself. The cold beverage was perfect, its flavor almost enhanced by the heat.

"Sam on the roof?"

"Yep."

* * *

Sam felt like food being cooked on a stove. The roof was attracting so much heat that sweat was almost constantly dripping off of his nose. He wished he'd brought his water bottle up with him, because his lips felt bone dry and the beginnings of a headache were pounding in the top of his head, but he had no desire to climb back down the ladder just to get it.

"Want me to get your water, Sammy?" Lucifer asked.

Sam gritted his teeth. No matter how much he dug at his scar, Lucifer wasn't disappearing. Sam vaguely wondered if it was the heat that was screwing with his head and keeping Lucifer there with him, because no matter how deeply he dug, the devil wouldn't leave. Blood was sticky on his hand, drying quickly in the sun, but Sam wasn't concerned with it. The bleeding of his scar helped him to dig into it more painfully.

"I mean, it was just an offer," Lucifer said. "I'm only trying to be nice, Sam."

Sam ignored him.

"Do you want my kindness or not?" Lucifer said petulantly. "Because instead I can-"

"You can't get my water because you're not real!" Sam snapped.

"How many times do I have to tell you? It's everything else that isn't real, Sam," Lucifer said, leering at him. "You're so stupid. You still have hope. But I guess that's what I wanted - for you to have hope. That makes it so much more fun, watching you go insane… trying to decide what's real… and thinking that Dean's real when he's just a figment of our imagination."

Sam flinched again but kept digging at the chimney with the cleaning brush.

"Sam! I'm making sandwiches if you want one!" Dean said suddenly from below. Sam looked at his watch, surprised; he hadn't realized it was lunchtime.  
"Yeah, that would be great," Sam called back.

"What do you want on it?"

Sam was about to answer but Lucifer interrupted. "He'll have blood and hair. Soak the bread thoroughly in the blood, though. It's so much better saturated. And don't forget the mayo. Mayo makes everything better."

Sam trembled slightly as Lucifer's eyes turned to his, as though reading his every thought.

"Sam!" Dean yelled from below. "Don't tell me you're going to la la land while you're on the damn roof!"

Sam shook his head. "No, I'm fine, Dean. Ham and cheese is fine."

"And blood," Lucifer added. "Human blood's definitely my favorite. Hey, Dean? Is there any blood in the fridge?"

Dean didn't see nor Lucifer. It chilled Sam, knowing that only he was seeing the devil.

"Sam, snap out of it, before I have to come up there!" Dean threatened, his voice low but panic in his face.

"I guess we're out of blood," Lucifer said, disappointment on his face. "I'll have to get some more." He pulled a knife from his pocket. "Sam, how do you like the taste of your own blood?"

He pitched the knife at Sam, who wasn't expecting it. It lodged itself in his abdomen and he stared down, shocked, as blood began to leak from his stomach.

* * *

Dean was pissed. He'd gone out to ask Sam for a sandwich to find that his little brother was hallucinating _on the roof_. He was waiting it out for the moment, afraid to make any sudden moves.

Sam kept glancing off to his left; whatever Lucifer was doing, it was distracting him from Dean.

"Sam! Focus on me!" Dean yelled to no avail. Sam didn't seem to hear him.

Suddenly, Sam's gaze shifted to his stomach. His fingers, shaking, hovered at the air a few inches out from his abdomen.

Almost as though the hilt of a knife was protruding there.

"Sam, whatever crap you're seeing, it's not real!" Dean yelled.

And then Dean saw it happening in slow motion, but he couldn't move fast enough. Sam's face, screwed up in pain, lifted again to look at where he was seeing Lucifer, and then his eyes rolled back in his head. He toppled, quickly tumbling off of the roof and dropping like a rock over the edge.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, running to meet his brother, to catch him - but he simply wasn't quick enough. Sam landed in a heap on the driveway, which was mercifully dirt packed and not pavement.

"Sam, look at me," Dean said firmly, gripping his brother's shoulders. Sam hadn't been knocked unconscious; on the contrary, his eyes were wide and wild. "Look at me. You're imagining things. It's not real."

"Get it out," Sam whispered, pain in his voice. "Dean, take it out - it hurts."

Dean's voice broke. "Sam, I can't - there's nothing there - you've gotta believe me, man. Look. There's nothing here." He patted his hands along where Sam was clutching his abdomen as though blood was pouring out.

"Nothing?" Sam whispered to Dean's relief, his breaths heavy. He was winded from the impact.

"Nothing. It's all just a hallucination." He gripped Sam's hand, noticing that it was bloody from where Sam had already deeply dug into it. "But you did fall, dude. That part's real."

"Ow," Sam said, his eyes clearing. He drew in a breath, wincing. "Ow… knocked wind… out of me."

"You're lucky you didn't land on a rock or something. The ground's soft from the heat."

"Still… hurts," Sam said, sitting up. He rubbed his head. "That sucked."

"You're going to have a bad bruise there."

Dean helped Sam up; Sam was leaning heavily on him and Dean suspected that he'd hit his head in the fall. "You good?"

"I'm good, Dean."

Leaning heavily on his brother, Sam stumbled back towards the door of the house, still digging into his palm the entire way.

"Stop, Sam, it's going to bleed more," Dean said, noticing. "Is the devil still there?"

"N..no."

"Then why are you-"  
"It hurt, Dean," Sam said quietly as they entered the house. Bobby must've been upstairs putting the clean linens on the beds because he wasn't in the kitchen. "The knife. He threw it at me. I can still feel it."

Dean glanced at Sam's abdomen. It was unharmed, the shirt dirtied from soot.

"Dude. You're okay. I'm with you."

"I know, Dean." Sam's breath hitched. "I know. But I can still feel it."

"Do you want an ice pack?" Dean asked, thinking of the giant bruise that Sam would indubitably be suffering from for the next week after having fallen from such a height.

"Yeah," Sam said. Dean went for the freezer and took out a bag of frozen peas and threw it to Sam.

"Thanks, Dean. And… I really am sorry. About the kitsune."

Dean couldn't bring himself to say that he had killed Amy. The hurt in Sam's eyes, he couldn't add to it.

"You were right, Sam. I'm sorry, too."

He turned away, unable to face the stabbing guilt in his chest nor the cornered, broken look in Sam's eyes.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading! Again, you've all been so amazing with support and I want to thank you all :)

Also, I really am sorry about how long it took me to update this. Work, summer homework, other writing, and violin all just sort of got in the way.

I need more prompts so please please please send something in a review, whether it's one word or a detailed description! Thanks so much!


	18. Pool

A/N: Sorry I haven't been writing much, I've been working and camping and incredibly busy! This prompt comes from Hyb108:

A season 8 fix-it between Sam and Dean, as a result of an injury to Sam due to Dean's neglect/indifference because of the whole purgatory debacle.

Forgive me if some details are a bit off because it's been a while since I've seen season 8! Also, I made up a lot of the lore in this chapter, so it's not based on anything. I'm camping and I have limited access to wifi so it's difficult for me to google lore to check my facts. Also, I'm using a different application to write this (again, due to the lack of wifi) so I apologize for any strange formatting.

—-

"We're not camping." Dean's voice was flat and absolute but he didn't turn towards Sam, instead directing his words at his plate of food.

"The hunt is at the campground, Dean. It wouldn't make sense to pay more money for a motel when we can just stay at the campground," Sam said as reasonably as possible. Maybe a year ago he would've argued more, but now he felt the need to tread carefully around his brother - almost as though Dean was a friend he was wanted to enjoy his presence.

"It's better to stay out of the hunting zone," Dean countered. "That way we're not making salt lines around us as we sleep-"

"But no one's dying at the campground," Sam reminded him.

It was true. They had found the connection quickly after arriving at the town that day Three people had been found beaten to death, all in obscure places in the town. The first was an elderly man on the lakeside, the second a young woman on a hike, and the third a teenage boy in the bathroom.

After talking to the police, they'd found that the connection between the three people was that they'd all stayed at the same campground.

"I know you don't like camping," Sam tried again. "I get that. But if we stay at the campground, then maybe we can figure out why the campground is the connection. Maybe it's sacred land, or a cursed object, or-"

"Forget it, Sam. We're not staying there," Dean said stonily.

Once again Sam remembered a time that he wouldn't have just let Dean say that to him. He would've told his brother to suck it up and stay at the campground.

Of course, that was before he'd betrayed Dean. After Purgatory. After failing to try to get his brother out of Monsterland.

So instead he just exhaled slowly and looked out the window. The restaurant they were eating at was disgusting. It was a greasy little diner, and both the exterior and interior were rundown and brown. Dean had selected it out of its inevitable frugality.

Sam picked at his salad, frowning at the crumpled, browned lettuce. He wasn't a picky eater - after all, it was impossible to be a picky eater when you'd grown up with John Winchester - but even he had his limits. The tomatoes were gooey and mushed, the mushrooms crumbled, and the dressing had an odd smell to it. He finally set his fork down in defeat. Dean finished his BLT sandwich and paid for the food, sending a quick look at Sam and his food that clearly meant, You're wasting money.

Sam would have liked to see Dean eat the nasty salad, but his brother's expression instead made him avert his eyes.

You're submitting, Sam told himself. Like a dog.

That didn't make him feel any more likely to confront his brother.

They left the restaurant in silence and got into the Impala, only to be welcomed by more silence. It was penetrating, painful, loud silence. Silence used to mean that they were riding in the car companionably, enjoying the views of the countryside. Now, it only heightened the awkward tension.

And so Sam wasn't sure if he was relieved or anxious to see the flashing lights of an ambulance come screaming around the corner.

"Follow it," he said immediately to Dean, but it was pointless - Dean was already doing a U-turn to follow the sirens.

Dean drove the car at a quick clip, keeping behind the ambulance but not at a suspicious proximity.

"There," Dean muttered as the ambulance pulled into the parking lot of a mini-golf park. They parked the Impala a bit further back in the lot and got out of the car. Dean opened up the trunk and quickly grabbed his FBI badge. Sam waited, expecting his brother to grab his own FBI badge; instead, Dean moved on towards the ambulance without looking at Sam.

—-

"What happened?" Dean asked with as much authority as possible; it was always more of a challenge to convince the cops they were FBI when they were dressed in plaid. "We're Agents Plant and Page. We're in town investigating the recent deaths."

"I'm Sheriff Cobb," the cop said. She nodded towards the ambulance. "Another death. Can I see some identification?"

They showed her their badges in unison. Dean snapped his shut and after the cop nodded, he moved towards where the body was. He could feel Sam walking closely behind him and that simple act was enough to perturb him, so he quickened his pace slightly.

The corpse was bloody and bruised. It looked like someone had taken a bat to the body.

"Who found the body?" Dean asked. "It's the middle of the day. Someone couldn't have been beaten to death at a mini-golf course without anyone noticing."

Sheriff Cobb shook her head. "That's what's baffling me. No one saw the body die. A young couple called 911 when they came up to it."

Dean gave the body another look, crouching by it. He heard Sam following the same course of action that they'd always done, and as soon as the cop was distracted and had turned away, Dean pulled out the EMF meter.

The device remained silent.

It wasn't a ghost, then, Dean decided, putting the EMF away. He leaned over the corpse again, prodding at different parts for any sort of clue as to what happened.

"Have you smelled anything weird lately?" Sam asked from behind Dean. "Like sulfur?"

"I can't say I have," Sheriff Cobb responded, her voice wary.

Dean lifted up the hand of the corpse, expecting to see nothing but more bruises and blood.

Instead, there was a flash of green that fell out. It tinkled to the ground, bouncing away.

Dean picked it up, turning it over in his hand to see with disgust that it was a tooth. A green tooth, sharp at the bottom and jagged on the top.

"Sam," he said, beckoning his brother over. Sam's expression when he called his name, as though Dean was saying, "Sam, I forgive you for not searching for me!" irritated him immediately, but he shoved it down since they were on the job at the moment.

"You ever see a tooth like this?" he asked, turning it over for Sam to see.

"Yeah, actually," Sam said, his brow furrowed. "That's a nymph tooth."

"A nymph," Dean repeated. "How do you know that?"

Sam shrugged. "I thought nymphs were cool several years ago and did some research on them."

The word nerd almost popped out of Dean's mouth, but one look at Sam and anger replaced teasing.

"How do we find it? How do we kill it?" Dean asked, keeping his voice to a murmur so that Sheriff Cobb wouldn't be able to hear.

"Stab to the heart with a rock," Sam said automatically.

"A rock? So, what, we've got to just find a pointy rock?"

"Yeah," Sam said, and his lips tightened. "Dean - I know you said you don't want to go camping - but now we know that it's a nymph. We just need to figure out why the connection is the campground. Why don't we just pay for a site and pitch the tent-?"

Dean felt the heat of rage rise in him; how many times did he have to say it for the fact to get through Sam's skull?

"You want to know why we're not camping?" he said in a low voice. Sam didn't respond but maintained eye contact, waiting for the answer.

"Because we have one tent," Dean snapped. "And if we go camping, I have to share a tent with you. Sam, I can't look at you for long. There's no way in hell that I want to spend the night in close quarters with you."

He didn't wait to see the hurt look on Sam's face, choosing instead to turn around and get back into the Impala.

—

Dean's words were like a slap to the face. Sure, Sam knew Dean was angry with him. But to say that he couldn't bear to stay in a tent for one night with him?

The first time he had gone camping was when he was eleven and Dean was fifteen. Of course, their dad and Dean had camped many times for a hunt, but Sam had been ordered to stay in the motel room.

But this time, they were allowed to come, since Sam was old enough to hunt.

It was in the woods of Maine, thick into the dense pine trees and oak trees. They were hunting a ghost that had been attacking hikers; an easy salt and burn. The corpse of the ghost was supposed to be in the ground where he was haunting the woods.

Sam remembered vividly their father's orders.

"Sam, you watch the east and north side. Dean, you stay on the west and south. Shoot anything that comes towards us while I dig."

Sam had watched the east and north side for hours while his father dug up the fortunately marked grave. Sitting patiently and quietly, keeping his eyes peeled for anything that moved. It was one of his first few hunts, and he had been determined to do well. After all, Dean excelled at every hunt and it made Dad proud of him. So, if Sam did well on a hunt, he had reasoned, then his father must be proud of him as well.

He and Dean kept the ghost at bay while their father dug, and it hadn't been difficult at all. The ghost had shown up at Dean's side first, and he'd shot at it, hitting it successfully in the chest. It later returned to Sam's side, and after missing the first shot he'd nailed it in the chest.

The ghost wasn't particularly courageous because the rock salt seemed to deter it from bothering them. Sam had returned to his seated position on the pine needles, keeping a vigilant eye on the landscape in front of him.

And then, for one moment, he'd gotten up to go pee.

It seemed so insignificant that he hadn't bothered mentioning it to his dad and Dean. One minute to take a whiz was all he needed. Besides, he'd only be ten feet away, just behind the large oak tree that was near their hunting spot. It wasn't a big deal. One minute to go pee and then go back to looking out for the ghost.

One minute was also enough for the ghost to show up and fracture his dad's arm. Sam had faced the wrath of his dad for weeks after that.

All in all, it hadn't been the best camping trip.

It took a moment for Sam to realize that they had arrived at the motel because he'd been so lost in thought. Dean didn't wait for him, and went into the motel lobby quicker than usual. Sam grabbed their duffel bags, swinging Dean's into his left hand. One part of him hoped that small acts of kindness would help his brother to forgive him.

But a larger part was afraid that Dean would see it as clingy and only push him away more.

Dean emerged from the motel lobby with two keys in hand, and he tossed one to Sam wordlessly.

"You're in room 6," he said, and promptly turned to unlock the door to room 7 for himself.

The words stung worse than Sam could have imagined. He stood for a moment, taken aback, before unlocking his own motel door with fumbling fingers.

As a kid he'd always wanted a motel room to himself. One time, he'd asked his dad if he could have his own room.

His dad's answer was that if he wanted to pay sixty a night for his own room, he was free to do so.

And now he had his own room. But he'd never wanted to share a motel room with Dean more than now.

Sam pulled out his laptop, at unease with the silence of the room. Even though Dean often left the motel rooms to go to a bar or some other place, his presence was always there - even if it was through smelly socks left on the floor or the puddle of water by the shower in the bathroom.

Well, now there was nothing to do except figure out why a nymph was murdering people staying at a campground.

—

It was nearly 10:30 in the morning when Dean woke up. At first he couldn't realize why he hadn't woken up sooner, since Sam tended to stop moving around quietly by nine. The previous day came flooding back in, and to his slight surprise, he didn't feel guilty at all.

Instead, it was a relief not having his little brother with him.

But either way they still needed to finish this hunt, and that meant that they needed to collaborate. Dean pulled his jeans on along with a tee shirt and opened the motel door to find the morning sun to be hot and arid. The air had the dry feeling that meant it hadn't rained in several days, and the temperatures were already scorching - but rising as well.

He knocked on Sam's motel door, and his brother answered it within seconds.

"I got breakfast," Sam said, pointing his thumb backwards to a brown paper bag on the table. "There's an egg sandwich in there. You might need to heat it up, though."

Dean could see the intent clear on Sam's face. Sam was hoping that an egg sandwich would make up for his betrayal.

Dean wasn't ready to forgive him over a sandwich.

"I'm not hungry," he said, looking Sam directly in the eyes. "You find anything last night?"

No doubt Sam had researched. Sure enough, Sam nodded.

"The campground is at the site of what used to be a native American shrine for nature. The shrine must have attracted the attention of nymphs, who are now angry that people are camping there," he explained.

Dean sipped his coffee contemplatively. "Then why did they only start attacking campers now?"

"I found that out too," Sam said, and twirled his laptop towards Dean. "They're renovating at the campground and put in a new pool. I guess pools are offensive to nymphs because the chlorine hurts them. They like natural water, and the installation of a pool set them off."

Dean shook his head. "This is a dumb hunt. Nymphs beating up tourists."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "But it should be simple. It's easy to summon a nymph; there's just a string of Latin. I found it online after thirty seconds; it's nothing secret."

"Summon it at the pool, stab it with the rock," Dean repeated flatly. His tone was devoid of all enthusiasm that used to accompany him on hunts, even he noticed.

"We still need a rock," Sam said, his brow creasing. "I was thinking that we could-"

"Got it," Dean said shortly. "I found one last night and sharpened it."

There was a sudden silence. Sam had understood Dean's intended words - he had found one. Not two. Sam would have to get his own.

The pressure of the silent motel room was so much that even Dean, despite how pissed he was at his stranger of a brother, had to stand up.

"I'll go kill her," Dean said, and turned towards the motel door.

"Hang on. You're not leaving yet," Sam said, though his voice wasn't commanding, it was uncertain.

Dean lifted the rock. "I've got my weapon. I'm not going to wait for you to sharpen a rock while the nymph kills more people."

Sam laughed nervously. It was the kind of laugh Dean had seen many times around other people, but never with him. It was a bit unsettling and it only distanced Sam further from him.

"Dean, you can't go on a hunt alone. That's just asking to get killed."

"Since when have you cared?" Dean shot back.

"That's not true. I cared," Sam said, his voice softer. "Dean, I swear, if I had known you were alive, I wouldn't have stopped looking for you."

"I don't care, Sam. I don't even care anymore," Dean interrupted. "Whatever you have to say means nothing to me." Sam opened his mouth to argue but Dean cut him off again. "Look, Sam. I get what you're saying. I hear you. But I can't look at you the same. When we're on a hunt together, it's like you're a random hunter I've never met before. I don't feel like I can trust you to have my back."

"Dean, I always have your back."

"I need a break, Sam," Dean continued. He didn't avert his eyes from Sam, who looked near breaking down. In the past he himself wouldn't have been able to continue speaking because of the hurt expression on Sam's face.

Now, it didn't stir his heart at all.

"Just give me a few weeks and maybe we can hunt together again," Dean said, even though deep down he felt that he still wouldn't want to. "I can't do this with you, Sam."

With that he turned and left, flipping the rock knife in his hand. He had a nymph to kill.

—-

Sam had broken bones. He'd been stabbed, shot, bruised, choked, thrown, and punched. But nothing compared to the hurt of words.

His chest felt hollow, sunken in. He was cold yet uncomfortably warm, his breathing seemingly too fast yet he couldn't draw any breath. His chest felt constricted, like someone had tied a belt around him.

He ran his fingers through his hair, fighting the pain. The roar of the Impala's engine signified that Dean had left the motel.

Before thinking about what he would do Sam had already thrown his shoes on. Dammit, even if Dean wanted a break, he wasn't going to let his brother finish this hunt on his own.

He left the motel hastily, searching the ground for any sort of rock. There was a garden by the parking lot with a few rocks scattered in it and Sam grabbed one, weighing it in his hand. It was by no means sharp but it would do well to bludgeon the nymph. All of their knives were in the Impala, and though Sam had his gun with him, it wouldn't do anything to the nymph. The rock in his hand was his best hope, unless he could find a better one at the campground.

There were several cars in the motel parking lot and he casually leaned on one before testing the door. To his relief, it was unlocked, and he climbed it. It took him a minute to hotwire the car and as soon as the engine puttered, he backed out quickly, driving towards the campground.

The campground was at least fifteen minutes away. Dean had a ten minute head start on him at least, but maybe only five minutes if Sam really sped.

He made the fifteen minute drive to the campground in twelve minutes. He didn't bother getting a visitor's pass, instead driving right in. No one would know, he reasoned.

The pool was close to the entrance of the campground, and sure enough, the Impala was parked right outside of it. Sam parked the car next to it, climbing out with his rock in hand.

Dean had already ushered the campers out of the pool, Sam saw, as he jogged by the disgruntled crowd of people and children questioning the supposed FBI agent in the pool area.

"Everyone stay back," Sam directed, holding up the FBI badge. "Listen to my partner - I'm assuming he already told you to stay back?"

"What's going on?" one mother asked. "He said that there's a bacteria in there that could cause the Plague. Is he lying?" Sam rolled with Dean's lame story. "No, ma'am, he's not. Someone poisoned the pool. It's warfare. No one can enter until we've cleaned it of the bacteria."

In the background, he could hear Dean reading the Latin, and he turned to move.

"But who did this?" the same woman protested.

"I don't know," Sam said, slightly impatiently. "We're working on it."

The people looked unconvinced but they didn't move. Sam felt his cheeks grow slightly hot at the ill-devised lie but he turned on his heel and ran into the pool area as a sudden wind picked up.

There was a roaring in his ears as the breeze shuddered through them all, and when it stopped, there was a beautiful woman standing in the pool area.

"Hunters," she said immediately. "Get out of my way."

Dean lifted the sharpened rock. "You've got to stop killing."

"I will not. This campground has offended our land too far. These campers need to be taught a lesson."

"Listen," Sam said urgently. "We can't let you go if you don't stop. I get that you're protecting your land, but-"

He was distracted by a sudden yell behind him. He chanced a glance despite his hesitancy to turn his back to the nymph.

One of the campers that was waiting outside of the pool was yelling in pain as an invisible force knocked him to the ground. Blood spouted from his nose and his skin discolored sharply with invisible blows.

"Are you doing that?" Sam demanded.

"Oh, no," the nymph said, her tone bored. "He offended me, too."

Dean lunged at her with the knife but she sidestepped him, flicking her hand. The knife flew out of his hand and landed in the pool, sinking to the bottom quickly.

"Dean! Help the man!" Sam yelled, and it didn't matter if he and Dean were like strangers now. Instinct made Dean listen to him, and Sam saw his brother nod before running to the man.

Sam dove into the pool, grasping the knife. He surfaced, climbing out of the water and dripping on the pool pavement.

The nymph backed up. Her brown hair shimmered around her and she looked at him with downturned green eyes.

"Don't kill me," she pleaded.

Sam didn't answer her, instead lifting the knife to stab her.

"I'll kill you if you try to kill me," she warned. Sam hesitated for only a moment before swinging the knife down into her heart. She gasped slightly, her body hunching over as the knife slid into her heart and back out.

"You will fall too, hunter," she whispered, and she crumpled to the ground.

Sam released his grip on her once he was sure she was dead, and only then did he feel the warm, sticky liquid on his chest.

He lifted up his shirt in shock. The nymph hadn't touched him once.

The man that had been yelling in pain had suddenly stopped. He was limp on the ground, panting, but alive.

"Sam! You get her?" Dean asked, coming over. Sam didn't turn around, afraid to face his brother. He'd been attacked by an invisible force, and now, he didn't have a brother to help him.

At least, he didn't have a brother that would care about helping him. He examined the wound with morbid fascination. It was deep, and bleeding heavily.

It reminded him of the first slash he'd seen on his brother's chest, years ago, when he'd been dragged to Hell by the hellhound.

"Is she dead?" Dean asked from behind him.

Sam didn't answer. He'd be okay, he knew, but stitches were necessary. And Dean wouldn't be stitching him, he was sure, so he'd have to go the hospital, but he didn't know how he'd pay for the hospital, and Dean wouldn't drive him there, definitely, so he'd have to call an ambulance. Well, unless he could drive, which he didn't think would be an issue. It wasn't deep, but it was deep enough. Damn that nymph.

His jumbled thoughts were interrupted by Dean twisting him around by the shoulder.

"Sam? You with me?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, she's dead," Sam said, his voice a bit strained.

Dean's eyes lowered to Sam's chest. "You got hurt," he noted, his green eyes going back to Sam's face.

Dean's reaction was just as Sam had predicted.

"You're going to need stitches," Dean added.

"Yeah," Sam said, and drew a breath. "Could you-"

"Yeah, I'll drive you to the hospital," Dean said easily.

The words were not what Sam wanted to hear, but he nodded. "Thanks, Dean," he said quietly, unsurprised by the lack of a response.

They had only made it two steps before they were blocked by a large man.

"Drop the knife," he said, and Sam realized only then that he was still holding the rock knife that he'd yanked out of the nymph's chest.

"I've already called the cops. Drop the knife," the man repeated. "I just saw what you did. You're not going to hurt anyone else."

"This isn't what it look like," Sam said immediately, still holding his bloody chest. "I swear, we didn't just-" "Kill a woman?" The man's voice shook. "I said, drop the knife!"

Sam held his hands in the air, preparing to drop it. "Please, listen. That wasn't just any woman," he said, beginning to explain.

The man didn't wait to hear why Sam had just stabbed a woman in the chest. He dove at Sam, who was unprepared for the sudden attack. The man wrenched at Sam's wrist to grab the knife, pushing him backwards.

"Sam, drop the knife!" he heard Dean yell, and the tone was sharp and deep, just like how their dad used to give them commands. Sam's grip on the knife loosened immediately and he fell backwards, his feet slipping up from underneath him on the wet, slick pool pavement.

—

Dean was pissed at Sam. He felt only disgust when he saw his brother, only betrayal. The cut on Sam's chest didn't change anything.

The man that approached them was just another person. Another witness who had seen them kill someone (well, something), and immediately thought that they were they bad guys.

Annoying as hell, yes, but all part of the job description.

The man lunged toward Sam to disarm him of the knife unexpectedly, though; even Dean didn't see it coming. He found himself yelling for his brother to drop it, and even as he heard the clatter of the rock upon the pavement, he could see Sam falling backwards.

His brother's head hit the ground with an unforgiving crack and there he remained, lying still. No one moved, not even the man, until the small river of blood began to drift out from the back of Sam's head.

Dean moved into action, falling into the old role of big brother before he even realized what he was doing.

"Sammy!" he found himself shouting, bending by Sam's side. "Sam, come on, man." He waited, expecting Sam to sit up laughing at how he'd gotten Dean to reveal that he still did care.

"Sam. Sammy. I'm sorry, okay? Is that what you want to hear?" Dean asked, working as he spoke. His hands moved quickly, wrapping his own shirt around Sam's head to staunch the bleeding. The man was still standing there silently, his mouth open in shock.

"Help me get him to my car," Dean snapped, lifting Sam upward slightly. "Come on, dude, don't make me carry your heavy ass all the way to the car."

To his surprise, Sam's eyes cracked open.

"Dean?" he said confusedly.

"Hey, Sammy. You're going to be okay," Dean told him softly, the words coming from his mouth without any thought at all. "It's just a little head wound. Completely superficial."

"You're lying." The words were heavy and slurred in Sam's mouth.

"Can you stand at all?" Dean asked, helping Sam to his feet anyway.

"Gonna pass out," Sam muttered, and he slumped over, Dean holding him up completely. The man was still shell-shocked and went to Sam's other side, helping Dean lug him forward.

"Get out of my way," Dean said angrily as they reached the crowd of people. A few mothers were covering their children's eyes, protecting them from the sight of blood dripping from Sam's head and chest.

"The police will be here soon. They can take him to the hospital," the man said.

"No," Dean said. "You told them someone was murdered here, right?"

The man nodded.

"Then we're out of here," Dean said shortly. They had reached the Impala, and Sam's eyes had cracked open again.

"Dean?" he said again, just like he had the first time.

"I'm going to take care of you, Sammy. Watch your head," Dean said as he helped Sam into the Impala. "You'll be okay."

He didn't say anything else to the man but instead hurried to the driver's side of the car. He urged Baby forward, her tires squealing on the pavement.

"Don't crash." Sam's voice was so quiet that Dean barely heard him.

—-

Sam woke up to the familiar sterile whiteness of the hospital room. He used to keep count of how many times this happened, but he'd lost count when he went to Stanford. He turned his head around the room, searching for Dean, before he remembered.

They were barely on speaking terms. He kicked himself for forgetting, for having hoped that his brother would be next to his bed.

His head was pounding with a headache. He felt drowsy, and struggled to keep his eyes open; no doubt courtesy of heavy painkillers.

He sat up, his vision tunneling momentarily. The floor was cold as he placed his bare feet on it and he shivered, his bones feeling weak and useless as he stood.

"Sam? What the hell are you doing?"

Sam twisted embarrassingly quickly at the familiar voice of his brother. "Dean?"

"Yeah, you kept saying that whenever you woke up," Dean said, a mocking smirk on his face. "How you feeling?"

"Like someone drugged me and then hit me in the head with a baseball bat," Sam said, touching the back of his head. His fingers leapt away immediately as pain shot down his spine. He sat back down unsteadily on the bed, wincing.

"Ten stitches on your head and twenty-one on your chest," Dean said, sitting down in the chair next to the bed. "A man saw you stab the pretty nymph and tackled you when you didn't drop the knife immediately."

"Stupid way to get hurt," Sam said. "So, what, he nailed me in the back of the head."

"You fell, dude. Cracked your melon on the pool pavement."

Sam realized only then that they had fallen into a normal conversation - a conversation that they would have had pre-Purgatory. "Dean, I know there's nothing that I can do or say that will change what happened," he began, but Dean interrupted.

"Shut up, Sam. It's fine."

"It's not fine, Dean. It's anything but fine," Sam said, irritated.

"Yeah, well, you almost died, so now we're even."

Sam let the words sink in. "Hang on. How does that make us even?"

"It does. I'm older and I say it does."

The banter was childish on purpose and Sam knew it. Nevertheless he smiled, wincing again as his head throbbed. Dean frowned.

"You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I am," Sam confirmed. "When are we getting out of here?"

"As soon as you're healed."

Sam frowned now. "Are we not taking off early?"

"We've got the money to pay right now. There's no reason to try to sneak out."

Sam knew that they didn't have much money, but he didn't argue. Instead, he reclined back onto the bed, feeling at ease that it was his brother, and not a shell of a brother, sitting next to his bed.

A/N: Probably not one of my best pieces, I had to rush to finish this before I leave camp. I've got a few prompts lined up but I could always use more! Thanks for reading, reviews are always greatly appreciated :)


	19. Meningitis

**Prompt:** I would like a story in the latest season (I kind of picture it right after Celebrating the life of Asa Fox when they are with Jody and Mary, maybe even Alex), but after hell, the hallucinations, the trials and all, Sam has a really hard time registering pain unless it is literally killing him, Dean tries to pay extra attention to his brother's body reactions and be on top of stuff, but even he has his limits. I want Sam to maybe go from "my stomach hurts a little" to fainting and peritonitis, or My head hurts a little, to fainting and meningitis or whatever, I want him to faint and then they discover he is really, really sick and nobody, not even him realized it.

Thank you, idreamofivan, for sending in this prompt!

 **Set:** Right after Celebrating the Life of Asa Fox, 12x06

 **A/N:** Sorry it's been so long since I've updated. Work, homework, and Gish have been keeping me busy.

Also, I based this hunt off of a real cold case in Lincoln, Nebraska. And for the medical part of this, I googled much of it to get my facts right, but let's face it - I'm changing some details. Forgive me for any medical continuity errors.

* * *

"Mom says that she's meeting us for lunch at the Biggerson's outside of Lincoln," Dean announced as he came into the kitchen. Sam was sitting at the counter, eating toast, and was disconcerted to find his brother smiling slightly.

"You're excited," Sam commented flatly, and took another bite of his toast.

Dean's smile faded a bit. "Yeah. It's Mom, you know? It's not like she's been dead for thirty-four years."

"I know, I agree," Sam said quickly, avoiding Dean's sarcasm. "Just - you were a bit hard on her last time, at Asa's wake."

Dean made his way to the coffee maker and filled his mug. "Well, now I'm going easy on her. You can't go into a hunt with grudges."

It took a moment for Sam to decipher what Dean was saying. "Did Mom find a hunt?"

"Yep. Four disappearances in a small town in Nebraska. Vics showed up dead a week later looking like a bullet pincushion."

Sam frowned. "Why is this our kind of thing, then?"

"They were found naked," Dean elaborated, "with duct tape over their mouths. It's the same way a girl was killed back in 1974."

Sam connected the dots quickly. "So, the murderer dies, and comes back as a ghost to kill again."

"Yahtzee," Dean confirmed. "Ready to hit the road? It's less than three hours away, and we're meeting Mom at noon."

"Sure," Sam said, making a pit stop at the cabinet to take out painkillers. Dean raised his eyebrows at the action.

"Just a headache," Sam said, slightly irritatedly; Dean sometimes over-exaggerated everything. He'd slept on his right side for too long last night and had a stiff neck, which was giving him the headache.

Honestly, sometimes Dean baffled him. With all of the crap they faced, why was his brother focused on the things that didn't matter? But when it came to searching for a wendigo, or investigating a haunted house, Dean was all for jumping right into the thick of the dangerous.

* * *

"Sam. Dude. Wake up."

Sam jolted up, groaning as his skin came away from the window of the Impala. He rubbed the sore spot. "We there?"

"Piss break," Dean said simply.

"You couldn't have gone in the bunker? It was only a three hour ride," Sam said, taking in their surroundings. They were at a dirty little rest stop. There was a grubby outhouse and a singular picnic table, which was occupied by a family of seven.

"Do you have to go?"

"No," Sam decided, settling back down into his seat.

The door slammed as Dean left, and then Sam must have dozed off, because all of the sudden Dean was opening the door again.

"Look what I found," Dean said, waving a twenty dollar bill in Sam's face. "It was on the ground."

"Someone might come back and look for it," Sam said, rubbing his eyes. "We should leave it."

Dean snorted. "We're at a reststop, Sam. Anyone who came here is long gone. Tonight, we should stop at a bar in town. Even with this we have barely enough to pay for the motel and food."

With that, he climbed back into the Impala and they took off onto the road again.

* * *

When they arrived at Biggerson's, Sam's headache had returned forcefully, but there wasn't time to go to the trunk and get more painkillers since Mary was standing outside of her car, waving to them.

"Sam, Dean," she called, smiling widely. Sam made his way over first, giving her a quick hug.

They made their way into the restaurant and took a seat at a booth near the door.

"You're sure it's the ghost?" Dean said after Mary had told them everything that she hadn't over the phone. "Not a sicko recreating a cold case?"

"I'm positive. Like I said, EMF all over the vic's body," Mary said.

"Does he have any surviving family?" Dean asked. "Someone we could talk to?"

"That's the issue. It was a cold case. They never figured out who it was," Sam put in. "We can't question the dead guy's family if we don't know who it is."

"Damn. It would be convenient if the locals did their job and solved their mysteries before it becomes an afterlife mystery," Dean grumbled.

"They might have a good idea of who did the murder, though," Mary pointed out. "They might not have had any hard enough evidence to condemn anyone."

"What, so do we just salt and burn all of the suspects that are already dead?" Sam asked just as the waitress came from behind him. She set their food down rather quickly, giving them a wary look over her shoulder as she returned to the kitchen.

"This is what I needed," Dean said, looking at his BLT with satisfaction before digging in. Mary had gotten a burger for herself and was eating it as well; looking at them both, Sam could see who his brother had gotten his eating traits from.

"Aren't you going to eat?" Dean asked, his mouth full of food. He looked pointedly at Sam's hardly touched salad.

"I'm going to bring it back to the motel. I'm not hungry yet," Sam said, and then leaned in. "We don't have time to dig up all of the graves of the suspects, though."

"There's going to be another murder tonight, Sam, it's been like clockwork," Mary said, her brow furrowed. "We have to try or someone will die."

"But what if we found the ghost, and figured out who it was before we dug a bunch of graves?" Sam asked. "Look. We know who's been taken and where. One of us can get taken as bait and figure out who the ghost is."

Dean chewed his food slowly. "That sounds like one of Dad's plans."

Mary's eyes seemed to drop slightly at the word "Dad" before she recovered. "Okay. I'll be bait."

"No way," Sam and Dean said simultaneously.

"I'm your mother and if I say I'm bait, then I'm bait," Mary said firmly, taking another bite of her burger. "There's nothing you can do that will change my mind."

"I'm not letting my own mother go in as bait," Dean said, disgusted.

"I'll go," Sam volunteered before Dean could continue. Now, his older brother turned on him.

"And I'm not letting my little brother go in as bait either. I'll do it."

Sam straightened in his seat; height always helped his case. "Dean, you need to be the one digging the grave. You're faster than I am. If you're the bait, then it'll take more time to salt and burn the corpse-"

"You need a break, man," Dean said, frowning. "I mean, you were just tortured by that friggin' British lady. You need to stay out of the line of fire for a bit."

"That's a pathetic excuse. I'm fine."

"Boys!"

Mary's tone made them both stop short. For the tiniest of moments Mary looked quite proud at having shut up both of them until she continued. "I'll be bait. End of story. You two have been 'in the line of fire' for decades now. It's my turn."

Dean opened his mouth to argue but Mary raised her eyebrows. Dean's jaw closed quicker than Sam had ever seen.

"Fine," Dean grumbled finally. "But I'm not happy about it."

* * *

Six hours later, they were in the strip mall parking lot, where the vics had all disappeared. Sam and Dean were in the Impala, watching Mary, who was settled on a bench on her phone. Distracted, alone - perfect bait.

They had put a tracker in her jacket and turned on her GPS so that they could follow wherever she was taken. Sam was pivoted in his seat to keep an eye on her; his neck was unyielding from the previous night and incapable of turning far to the right.

"How are you doing, Sam?" Dean asked abruptly.

"Doing?" Sam said, frowning slightly; his head was pounding a bit and his neck was sore but it wasn't anything that he couldn't handle. "What do you mean?"

"I mean with after what happened with Toni. We didn't talk about it much."

"I told you, I'm fine," Sam said, and then, because he could see that his brother didn't believe him, "Look. Lucifer tortured me in Hell for 180 years. I think I can handle one Brit with a stick up her ass."

The corners of Dean's mouth turned up at that. "She was a bitch," he agreed.

The temperature of the Impala suddenly dropped without warning. Sam snapped back to his position, seeing that Mary was still there.

"Do you see it?" Dean asked, lifting his shotgun and cocking it.

Sam didn't answer; he was listening intently and watching for any sign of their mystery ghost.

"What the hell?" Dean whispered, and Sam wasn't sure what his brother was talking about until he suddenly smelled the sickly sweet scent.

"Get out of the car!" Dean bellowed, and Sam saw Mary look up at the sound of his voice, but the world was tunneling - he jiggled the door handle only to find it locked - and then the world turned to night, the sounds gone and replaced with silence.

* * *

"Sam."

Sam stirred slightly. His eyes felt ridiculously heavy, like someone had taped them shut. Unconsciousness was tugging at him like he had an anchor around him, and Sam obeyed the pull, falling back into the dark, only to have the voice say his name again. This time, it was accompanied by a shove to his back, and Sam squinted his eyes open.

"What?" he said groggily.

"Dude, wake up."

"Trying." He tried to focus the spinning world, fighting to keep his eyes open. Against his will they kept closing, and he shook his head slightly to counter the fog.

The shove at his back jolted him forward again. "Sam, wake the hell up."

"Wake…hell up?" Sam repeated. Speaking seemed to help keep the mists of unconsciousness away. "Where are we?"

"Some sort of cellar. You up?"

Sam thought he answered, but he must not have, because the shove to his back came again.

"Don't fall asleep again. What are you, Sleeping Beauty?"

"Hm?"

Sam pulled his eyes open. It was bright; there was a massive lamp aimed towards him and he pressed his eyes shut against the agony of looking at the bright light.

"We were drugged, somehow. Damn ghost poisoned Baby with a gas."

Dean was against him, Sam realized. They were tied up, back to back.

"Good thing we turned on our GPS locations, too," Sam muttered, feeling for his phone, only to realize that his jacket nor his shirt was on. This was what woke him up the most, and he leaned away from Dean automatically.

"Yeah," Dean said, as if he knew what Sam was thinking. "He stripped me of everything but my boxers. At least he gave us a bit of decency before he decides to shoot us," he added sarcastically.

Sam tugged at the bindings to no prevail, and ended up leaning uncomfortably against the rope out of aversion to pressing his back against Dean's.

"Dude, I let you use me as a pillow for the past half an hour," Dean said, his voice annoyed. "Besides, I showered yesterday."

"What, you want to snuggle?" Sam asked distractedly as he pulled against the rope in a futile effort to break it.

"No way. You're like a furnace," Dean said, and then paused. "You feeling okay?"

Sam snorted. "Dean, I'm fine."

"I swear, if you get the flu right now while we're tied up…" The unspoken threat was well conveyed and Sam shifted farther from his brother to keep him from worrying about his body temperature, when there were much bigger things to be worried about.

The temperature dropped suddenly, and in drifted a ghost wearing trousers and a sweater. He held a shotgun casually in his left hand and his skin was shriveled with chunks missing, as though his real body had been rotting underground and had a few bites taken out of it.

"I thought you'd be taller," Dean said conversationally, craning his neck around to see the ghost. "Continuing your hobbies into the afterlife, huh?"  
The ghost didn't answer but instead took out duct tape and put it over Sam's mouth, and then Dean's. His breath was labored and Sam turned away as the ghost peered down at him, breathing straight into his face.

"Hey, dickwad!" a voice said suddenly, and Sam felt intense relief at the sight of his mom in the doorway. She fired the shotgun at the ghost and he vanished.

"Mmm!" Dean said, his voice stifled by the duct tape, but Sam interpreted it as "Mom!". Mary ran over and cut their ropes free; Sam stood up, rubbing the burns on his arms.

"You good?" Dean asked, turning around to survey his brother.

"Yeah. You?" Sam said.

"Yep. Thanks, Mom. How'd you find us that quickly?"

Mary's expression turned bewildered. "'That quickly'? It took me nearly half a day. I had a bit of trouble working the GPS… I mean, the technology these days is so much more complex…" She blushed slightly, looking at her feet. "I'm sorry I couldn't get here sooner. But I found out who the ghost is and what's tying him here."

"Great. Let's burn it," Dean said. "Sam, you have the lighter?"

It took a moment for Sam to process his brother's words. He was still squinting at the bright light, shielding his eyes from it. He barely even noticed Dean scrutinizing him.

"What?" Sam asked, shaking himself away from his stupor.

"You have the lighter?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, it's in my pocket." He handed the lighter to Dean, averting his eyes from the bright light of the lamp.

Sam found that he wasn't listening as Mary and Dean rummaged for the salt. Or, the item. Something.

"Sam! Are you listening?"

"Yes," Sam said immediately. "What?"

"I said, are you okay? You're burning up."

"I'm fine," Sam insisted, feeling only more annoyed at Dean's constant overreacting. He regained his composure and poured salt over the gun.

That was the last thing he remembered before the room was tilting sideways and nailing him painfully in the back of his head.

* * *

"Why the hell didn't he say anything?"

"We're not sure, Mr. Elliot. We're still looking into it, but it's difficult to say until he wakes up."

Sam opened his eyes; his first realization was that it was much easier to open them this time than it had been when he was in the cellar.

"Dean?" he asked, sitting up painfully.

"You dumbass," were his brother's first words. "Why didn't you tell me you had friggin' meningitis?!"

"What? I didn't know," Sam said, rubbing the back of his head; it was sore.

"The doctor says 'chronic meningitis' is _painful_. Fever, headaches, nausea - and you went on the hunt anyway! That was number one rule about injuries, dude, you don't screw with them," Dean said angrily, gesticulating wildly. "So when you're not feeling well, you tell me! And that includes _meningitis!_ "

"Dean, I swear, it was only a small headache," Sam said, shaking his head.

"Bullshit. The doctor said-"

"The doctor must've been wrong, Dean," Sam said as calmly as he could. "I was fine. I would've told you if it felt that bad."

Dean turned away, facing the window. "This isn't just some sickness, Sam, you can die from it. You realize that?"

"Dean, I'm telling you, I didn't feel that bad."

There was silence. Sam sat up straighter in the bed, glad to see he was still in his clothing and that the time was not far from when he had last seen it. It wasn't a dramatic hospital visit, thank God. They were in a small clinic, with antibiotics sitting on the table beside him.

"I guess," Sam began, "It didn't seem bad because I've had worse."

"What, you can't feel pain? Don't tell me you're Robo-Sam again," Dean said, his voice full of much more contempt than Sam would have expected.

"That's not what I'm saying," Sam countered. "A couple of years ago, when I was seeing Lucifer all over the place, he was constantly putting me through crap like this. And the Trials; those felt like hell. Well, not exactly hell, but…" He trailed off. "I'm used to it. Feeling like I'm going to keel over."

He recalled the headache he'd had that day. If he'd had that headache when he was sixteen years old, no doubt he would have been in much more pain, he realized.

"I'll try to register pain better next time, Dean," he finished dully, hoping that would appease his brother's temper.

Dean turned around, shaking his head. "I just wish… it's things like this, Sam, that make me feel like…"

"Like what?" Sam prompted.

Dean's eyes met his. "Like I've failed over and over again. I try to protect you. Dad's orders, you know? And then it became second nature. But you've died before, and you've gone to Hell, you've taken on the Trials, you've hallucinated and been soulless and tortured - so much crap that I can't even begin to think of. I mean, I've done a piss poor job of keeping you safe." He gave a hollow laugh, shaking his head again.

"Dean, you realize you've been through the same? You think that I don't hold myself to that same standard?" Sam said, and then realized Mary wasn't in the room. "Where's Mom?"

"Getting coffee. She thought you might want less people in the room when you woke up," Dean said briefly, and Sam understood immediately. Mary felt uncomfortable being with Sam and Dean when they were emotionally vulnerable.  
"You can't hold yourself responsible," Sam said quietly.

Dean ran his hands through his hair before exhaling. He reached over, grabbed the antibiotics, and opened them a bit aggressively, handing two pills to Sam.

"I can, and I will," Dean admitted, cracking a small smile at him. "So take the damn pills so you can get better."

Sam obeyed instantly, popping them into his mouth. He couldn't bring himself to smile back; the burden that he could almost see on his brother's shoulders made him feel sick to his stomach.

 **A/N:** I have this issue where I keep rushing to finish chapters before I leave for work, and then it becomes OOC and terribly written. I'm sorry for the lack of quality in this chapter, and I'll spend more time on the next one! I've just been so busy lately that it's been difficult to find time to sit down and take my time to write!


	20. Resurrection

**Prompt:** This prompt is from AlxM: Just some old-fashioned early s5 hurt Sam and guilty Dean. Maybe Sam dies somehow, which really shakes Dean out of his anger, and then he's brought back by Lucifer?

Thanks for the prompt!

 **Set:** After 5x05 "Fallen Idols".

* * *

"Oh, come on!" Dean snapped at Sam as they got into the Impala. Sam looked at him, his eyebrows raised in confusion.

"The seats! You couldn't have bothered to try wiping some of the dirt off first?" Dean asked angrily, looking at Sam's muddy pants. They had just killed a spirit that was living in a mucky pond in West Virginia. Unfortunately for Sam, he had been the one to drag the ghost's corpse out of the water while Dean fended off the spirit from the shoreline with the rock salt.

"I think I'm entitled," Sam responded coolly. "I was the one in the water while you got to be on lookout."

Dean didn't answer. He was pressing hard on the gas, anxious to get back to the motel so he could wipe the mud off of Baby's seats. Besides, he really needed a beer; Sam had been getting on his nerves and his left ankle hurt like hell.

He'd sprained it on the hunt. Well, not quite on the hunt, because it wasn't the monster's fault he'd sprained it; it was Sam's. Dean had told Sam that he was walking slowly and that a snail could outrun him; in response, Sam had given him a lighthearted shove. That shove had twisted Dean's ankle. It was the dumbest way he'd ever gotten an injury, and of course though Sam had felt bad and apologized profusely, it was still irritating.

Dean's annoyance with Sam didn't have anything to do with… well, what they had been dealing with for what seemed like forever now. After having gone to the future and feeling Lucifer in Sam's body snap his neck, he wasn't keen to get on Sam's bad side. Calling his brother and reuniting them _had_ kept them human.

Which also meant that it kept him pissed at Sam for the little things. Maybe it was fueled by Sam's lying and sneaking out of the previous year, and the minor fact that those lies led to Lucifer being freed, but they had apologized to one another.

Still. It didn't give Sam a free pass for getting mud on Baby, and it definitely didn't make Dean want to clean it up for him.

"You're cleaning your mess," Dean said firmly, waving his hand vaguely towards the mud. "Because my ankle hurts, and there's no way I'm doing it."

Sam looked at him moodily and Dean took that as a reluctant sign of agreement. Dean turned on the radio and surfed through the channels, only to find that almost every station except for the pop one was on a commercial break. Disappointed, he turned it back off and glanced out the window at the town they were driving through. It was unfamiliar; a suburban town in Illinois that they'd passed by before but never stayed in.

Dean tapped his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. The minivan in front of them was going a solid five under the speed limit, and there was nothing Dean hated more than people who forced his baby to go slow.

"Dammit, she's going seven under now!" he announced to Sam, who glanced up, gave him an amused look, then went back to his book. It got on Dean's nerves and he considered passing the minivan, but there was too much oncoming traffic.

Finally they reached their motel and parked outside the door.

"I can go pack," Sam offered, sending a quick look at Dean's ankle. "I'll be quick."

"Nah," Dean said, getting out of the car carefully and leaning heavily on his right foot. "We should stay here for another night or two. We don't have another hunt right now and we're low on money."

"How much?" Sam said, his brow furrowed.  
 **"** Seven hundred, give or take fifty. And we need to do laundry. We should stay longer; refuel, get cleaned up, hustle some pool," Dean said, hobbling inside. Sam came to his side and offered an arm, but Dean shrugged him away.

If there was one thing his father taught him, it was to always be strong. That included the little things, like friggin' sprained ankles.

* * *

Dean always hated errand days - when they got caught up with the normal activities other people did all the time, but Sam didn't mind them. Going to the laundromat, bringing their car to the mechanic, getting groceries, cleaning their weapons; it made their life slow down, even if it was only one day.

Sam had taken on laundry, even though it was the most tedious of all their chores because getting blood off of clothing in a public place was not easy. Dean had also given him a hundred dollars from their dwindling collection of money to buy new clothing for both of them. The last few hunts had been messy, including ripped shirts and shredded jackets.

Dean, meanwhile, was supposed to rest his ankle while cleaning out all of their guns and weaponry and also buying more ammo, salt, silver, iron, and paint. That also meant they were down another hundred; no doubt they'd be hustling that night.

Technically, they were on good terms; they'd talked it out after killing Paris Hilton. Dean had said he'd recognize that Sam wasn't just the little brother, and Sam was making an effort to regain Dean's trust.

But getting Dean to trust him was like getting a concrete wall to trust him. And then he'd gone and screwed up multiple times; he'd accidentally sprained Dean's ankle, and got mud all over the car.

When'd he'd tried to help his brother, because he was limping, Sam had only gotten a cold look in return.

Maybe he was overthinking it. Maybe Dean was just being his usual pissy older brother self. But all that came to mind for Sam was how desperately he wanted Dean to trust him, yet he kept screwing things up.

Sam finished loading the washing machine and put several coins in it; with a whir, it turned on and began to start the cycle. He had about an hour until the clothing needed to be put in the dryer, so he left the laundromat to walk across the street where there was, conveniently, a thrift store.

He managed to buy them both two new shirts each for less than forty dollars and got a new jacket for each of them. It had been a long time since he'd bought clothing for Dean. He hadn't done it since before the Lucifer and the demon blood and Lilith.

The thrift store smelled like must and mothballs. Sam felt a twinge of irritation with himself; he should have gotten the clothes and then gone to the laundromat so that he could wash the new clothing before they wore it. Too late now.

He had time to stop at the grocery store and pick up snacks for when they were on long car rides - granola bars, beef jerky, twinkies, water, beer, and crackers.

The washing cycle was just finishing when he entered the laundromat again, so he switched all of the clothing to the dryer and sat down with a magazine.

A young redhead entered the laundromat with her arms full of towels. She was petite, in her mid-twenties, and she had olive green eyes. Sam glanced up only to make awkward eye contact, so he flickered his eyes back down to the magazine, feeling warmth in his cheeks.

The redhead meandered over to the washer near his dryer and put her towels in, sending him a furtive look as she did so. She sat down in a chair with only one seat in between them. Sam kept his eyes downward on his magazine, though his cheeks were probably so red that there was no way the girl didn't notice.

"You passing through town?" the redhead asked suddenly.

"Yeah, I was - I am. My brother and I. Passing through," Sam said, cursing himself as he spoke. He didn't often want to be his brother, but right now, he really wished he was as smooth as Dean.

"Thought you looked new. It's the suburbs; anyone who isn't a soccer mom stands out," the redhead said, laughing. "And anyone who goes to the laundromat with ten pounds of flannel."

"Yeah, I'm roadtripping," Sam said, smiling. "Are you from around here?"

The redhead snorted. "God, no. I can't stay in one place more than a month. Gets boring."

The dryer finished, announcing its end with a _ting_ sound, so Sam stood up, opening the dryer with the sensation that the redhead was watching him.

"I'm Leah," the redhead said as he turned back around with a bin full of hot, clean clothing.

"Sam," Sam answered, setting the bin on his left hip so that he could shake her hand.

"I've got to, uh, bring the clothing back to my motel. We're leaving town soon. Nice meeting you."

He turned around to leave but Leah called his name.

"Yeah?" he said, turning around.

She lifted up his jacket. "You forgot this." Her hand brushed his as she handed it to him and Sam took it, offering her another smile before leaving.

* * *

Dean was drinking a beer in the motel room when Sam entered, arms full of clothing. He sent a quick look at Dean and the beer before setting the clothing on his bed to fold.

"You found ammo? And silver?" Sam asked.

Dean pointed to the bag on the desk as an answer, taking another swig of beer. Sam lifted up the bag of clothing and tossed it to Dean.

"The green flannel and brown one are yours," Sam said, opening a beer for himself. "Got them for around ten dollars each."

"Thanks," Dean said, tossing the bag aside because it smelled like mothballs and that wasn't a scent he felt like having near his beer.

"I'll go shower," Sam said, picking up his clothing and boxers.

"You do that," Dean said, distracted, looking out the window. There was a cute blonde walking to her car right in front of their room. He'd have to see if he could catch up with her later, buy her a drink…

"Do you have a problem with me?" Sam said suddenly, facing Dean.

Dean's thoughts were interrupted and his mind whirred at Sam's angry tone. He couldn't think of why Sam would be mad so all that came out was a confused "What?"

"I know that we're just getting back to this, so I'm not expecting it to be smooth driving," Sam said, and though Dean tried to interrupt, he didn't stop. "I get that. And I know that I need to earn your trust again. But have I done something? Because you were pissed at me during the hunt, and I know that it was technically my fault that your ankle got twisted. But I swear I didn't mean to, and I'm really sorry about it. You've just been cold and distant, and now you're drinking…" Sam lifted his hands helplessly. "Look, man, if there's something I'm doing, please tell me."

Dean was bewildered. Sam always overthought things, but this time he'd really thought Dean was angry with him.

"Dude, I'm not mad," Dean said, shaking his head. "I was just distracted looking out the window right now, and I'm having a beer because it's friggin' hot out, not because I'm upset. And if I was, I'd be having whiskey. You're overthinking this."

Sam exhaled slowly. "I just thought - I guess I was… I don't know. Maybe I am overthinking it. I just want you to trust me again."

Dean wasn't quite sure how to respond to that. "Well, I wasn't pissed at you, even if it seemed like it. You're such a girl, dude."

Sam's face darkened slightly. "I'm sorry. I just thought you were angry, and thinking about the whole vessel thing, I…"

He turned away slightly.

"I keep thinking that you'll say yes if I don't prove myself," he said in a quiet voice. "Like you have nothing else to lose."

"What the hell? Why would I say yes?" Dean snapped. "I told you, Sam, first thing, we're not going to worry about this whole vessel thing. Second, there's no way that I would say yes!"  
 **"** But if you didn't trust me and thought I would say yes, then you might say yes because otherwise Lucifer's going to practically nuke the world," Sam said, his voice slightly desperate.

"I trust you not to say yes," Dean said, thinking of the alternate reality he'd been to. Future Sam had snapped his neck, and that wasn't anything that Dean was looking forward to. There was no way he'd let Sam say yes if he wanted his spine and neck to stay intact.

"But how do I know that?" Sam said, and by now his constant need for reassurance was beginning to annoy Dean.

"You know that because I'm giving you my word," Dean said. "If you trust me, then you'll know that I mean it. I know you won't say yes."

Sam sat down on the bed heavily, running his hands through his hair. "Lucifer and Michael." He gave a hollow laugh. "Why us? It's like the universe doesn't want us to catch a break."

"Some of it's our own bad decisions," Dean said before he could stop himself.

Sam looked up and the hurt on his face meant that he'd understood perfectly what Dean meant. The demon blood had been Sam's choice, not the universe's fault.

"I already told you why I did it," Sam said, and his voice shook slightly - that was the first indication that Sam wasn't hurt, he was mad. "It made me feel strong. Like I could handle living without an older brother being there to give up his soul for me when I die. _You don't know what it's like_." The words were spit out of Sam's mouth with fury.

"Yeah, I do," Dean said, thinking of those days that Sam's corpse had been lying in that cabin, still and silent.

"No. You don't. You were gone for so long. And the mystery spot? Dean, I went without you for six months!"

"What is this, a game of who should be pitied more? Are you saying you have a right to be stronger or something? Because that's bullshit," Dean said sharply. "You snap my neck in the future, if that makes you feel any stronger."

Sam's mouth dropped. "What?"

"When Lucifer takes the steering wheel of your meatsuit, he's going to snap my neck," Dean clarified. "Why do you think I picked up the phone to call you? You're going to kill everyone." The words were a slap in the face and Dean regretted them the instant they came out. How the conversation had escalated that far, he didn't know, but guilt swamped him immediately.

Sam didn't pause; he didn't even look offended. Instead, a retort came back just as quickly.

"I felt the most free I've ever been in my life when you were dead, and that's why I did it. More free than when I went to college. You died, Dean, and I had _freedom._ **"**

The guilt was gone, replaced with white-hot angry that pulsed in his head. Dean stared stonily at his brother, almost as though they were in a staring contest, before Sam wordlessly stood up. He grabbed the Impala's keys, which were on the desk, and Dean didn't even object. He was still staring at where Sam had been, unable to comprehend what they had just said to each other.

Had it been true? Most of him didn't think so. Maybe there was some truth to it. But did think Sam was going to kill everyone? Hell, no, he thought Lucifer would kill everyone. Although, if Sam said yes, it would be his brother's fault…

He only tore his eyes away from the spot where Sam had been when he realized the motel door hadn't opened. Sam hadn't left yet.

Instead, Sam was on the floor, blood leaking out of every part of his face. His eyes were bright red with vessels that had popped, dark blood was dripping off of his earlobes, and his nose was gushing with it. He was making a strange sound, as though he was choking, and then blood bubbled over the crest of his lips, streaking down his pale face.

"Sammy!" Dean shouted, and without a thought to what they had just said to each other he was at his brother's side. "Sam, what the hell?! What happened?"

Sam didn't answer, and he wasn't even seeing Dean, he was only convulsing on the floor. Dean's mind raced, his thoughts jumbled and still warped by the conversation that they had moments ago.

 _Think. Poison? Spirit? Monster? Witch?_

Without really thinking about what he was doing, Dean was on the other side of the room, digging under the mattress for a hex bag, turning the room upside down for anything. He flipped the desk over, hoping to see a small brown bag roll off of it, and swore loudly when he found nothing. He patted Sam down, feeling for it, but came up with nothing.

He hardly remembered calling 911; even if it wasn't something that ambulances dealt with - namely, witches - it seemed like the only option.

He frantically ripped through the clothing, his hands shaking with how fast he was moving. The pillows, the shower, the towels - no hex bag.

He checked under the beds, the closet, and the bathroom again, then Sam again, then back to the beds - no hex bag.

"Dean."

The name yanked him out of his fervor and he ran to Sam's side.

"Sammy, I've got to find the hex bag. It's got to be a hex bag. There's nothing else that could-" He stopped short as more blood came out of Sam's mouth. "Sammy?"

No answer. Sam's hand found Dean's, and he squeezed it tightly. Like an apology.

 _I didn't mean it. I didn't mean what I said._

"Sam, I can't find it," Dean said, and his voice cracked. "I don't know what to do - it's not here, but the ambulance is on its way, they can save you."

Sam's throat made a strange gurgling sound, drowned in blood. His eyes were rolling in his head and didn't once make eye contact with Dean.

"Sammy, you're going to be okay. Just hang on a little longer, for me." Dean placed his other hand underneath Sam's head to give him reassurance and comfort, but it was trembling so badly that Sam's head shook slightly.

"I swear, I can't… after what I just said to you… I didn't mean it, Sammy, I didn't. You've gotta be okay, or I'll kill myself. I can't… I said those things to you, Sammy, the last thing I said to you was…" He couldn't finish.

It felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to his chest and he couldn't breathe, but the tears came to his eyes and dripped out like he was a faucet.

"Sammy, I love you. I trust you. Don't you dare leave me. Don't you dare die."

The hand in his squeezed again. _It's okay, Dean. We're good._

And then it went limp.

"Sam?" The motel was so quiet that Dean could hear his own heart beating. He pressed two fingers to Sam's neck. There was nothing.

There was a blur. He was standing, suddenly, and smashing the television, throwing it across the room to where it shattered into a thousand pieces. And then the lamp, he threw that too, and it broke against the wall with a massive crash. He could feel the yell in his chest as he threw it but couldn't hear it; all he could hear was a ringing. He wasn't sure how long he was screaming. Screaming. He hadn't screamed in years.

There was blood all over his hands; both his and Sam's. He picked up their father's journal and threw it against the wall as well, but it wasn't nearly as satisfying as the lamp and television because instead it simply hit the wall with a limp smack and then fell amongst the shattered glass. Dean went to it, barefoot, hardly feeling the glass cutting into his own feet and lifted the journal into the air.

He ripped a page out. And then another. And another. Ripping the pages didn't do anything for him, but he kept doing it.

He was stopped before he could rip a seventh page out by a warm hand on his shoulder and yelling in his ear.

"Dean, stop!"

Dean went still. "Sammy?" he whispered, turning to his brother.

Sam was clean. No blood on him. His eyes were alive, his skin flushed. "Dean, it's okay. I'm okay."

They were hugging. Dean wasn't sure if he hugged Sam or Sam hugged him, but there was life in his brother's body and he broke down again.

"Lucifer brought me back, like he promised," Sam said quietly. "I died, Dean. And then he was there, and he said that he wouldn't let me die."

"Sammy, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it. I swear to God, I didn't mean what I said."

"I didn't either. Maybe there are less rules when you're not around…" Sam chuckled slightly. "But I would rather be sitting in the Impala having you yell at me for getting mud on her seats."

Dean closed his eyes and gripped his head. "You died," he repeated, his voice empty. "You died right in front of me."

"It was painful," Sam admitted. He looked around the room. "We need to get out of here."

"What?" Dean's head was so clogged with thoughts that he couldn't process his brother's words.

"We can't afford this," Sam said, gesturing at the destroyed motel room. "We've got to get out of here."

"Right," Dean said, shaking himself out of his stupor. He avoided looking at the puddle of blood on the floor as he stepped over it with the Impala's keys. They grabbed their few possessions; the bag of weaponry Dean had bought that day, all of the clothing, their father's journal, and their toothbrushes.

Sure enough, the motel manager was running over to their room as they exited it.

"Go!" Dean bellowed, and they ran to the Impala, throwing their items in and slamming the door. The rear of the car fishtailed as Dean swerved out of the parking lot, leaving the manager shocked and in the dust. The sound of sirens from the ambulance followed and they were turning the corner just as the ambulance entered the motel parking lot.

Sam laughed. "It's been several years since we've left a motel like that," he said. "Remember when Dad took us to San Francisco and the spirit came to our room?"

"We barely left in time," Dean recalled, grinning. "Dad was yelling at you to run faster."

Sam pulled his jacket on, and frowned suddenly, reaching into the pocket. Out came a small hex bag.

"Dammit!" Dean snarled, and yanked the car to the right as he went over the yellow line. "I searched everywhere but not-"

"My jacket hanging on the chair," Sam finished. "It's okay, Dean. Really."

Dean breathed out through his nose, trying hard to not swear or punch something. The hex bag had been right there in the room, all along. "Burn it," he said instead. "Right now."

Sam obeyed instantly, taking out his lighter and lighting the hex bag up. "Leah," he said abruptly.

"What?"

"There was a girl at the laundromat. I forgot my jacket and she handed it to me. She must've slipped it in there."

Dean slammed on the brakes. "We're not leaving town yet," he said.

Sam frowned. "But the motel guy is going to call the police, Dean, we can't stay."

"I don't care. I've got a witch to kill," Dean said, making a U-turn and pressing the gas hard to get back into the Illinois suburbs.

 **A/N:** Angst is so hard to write, but so fun! A death fic isn't something I often do, so thank you AlxM for shaking things up! :)

To everyone who has left a review and I didn't respond - you are all so amazing and inspirational. I try to respond but sometimes I forget and then I can't remember who I already responded to. So, thank you for your incredible support, I am very grateful!


	21. AU

**Prompt:** Thank you to AllShallFade777 for this prompt!

Season 8 AU, where Sam IS the one who frees Dean from purgatory, but at a terrible price to himself. Somehow Dean is still aware of the alternate reality where Sam didn't save him and Dean is mad at him, so then he can be all, omg, this is NOT what I wanted, I'd rather Sam hadn't tried to save me after all(bc let's face it, that's pretty much always their reaction when the other sacrifices something for them anyway).

 **Warning:** Dark themes concerning suicide in this chapter.

 **Set:** Early season 8, and 12x02… it'll come together, I promise :D

 **A/N:** I've never written an AU, really, and I don't tend to read them either, so bear with me if this chapter is poorly written :) hopefully I did the prompt justice, at least!

* * *

Dean's hands were shaking. Sam could see it.

"You bastard," he said, turning around and looking at Sam with fury. "What the hell did you do?"

Sam didn't answer. He was still looking at his brother with wonder; his brother, who was alive, and back with him, physically there.

"What did you do, Sam?!" Dean said again, and his voice was near a shout.

"I… it's okay, Dean, I did what I needed to do to get you back," Sam said. His voice started off cracked and quiet, and he had to clear his throat.

"There's a price tag. There's always a damn price tag. What was it?"

"I didn't sell my soul or anything," Sam began, leaning back onto the motel bed. "I didn't talk to any demons or monsters. The deal was _good_ , Dean, it wasn't evil."

"Then why aren't you telling me?" Dean demanded. "I didn't just spring out of Purgatory because of the goodness of some god's heart."

Sam couldn't even be bothered to get angry at his brother's tone. The fact that Dean was there at all, and not Purgatory, had him keeping himself from smiling.

He'd been alone for twenty-nine days. It had taken twenty-nine days for him to get his brother resurrected and walking the earth again. It was the worst twenty-nine days of his life; he had absolutely no one else to talk to. No one to support him, no one to listen to him, no one to keep him occupied.

Dean sat down across from him on the other motel bed, and his expression softened. "Sammy, you need to tell me."

Sam drew in his breath. "I found the Greek goddess of innocence. Her name's Astraea."

Time seemed to slow to molasses as he spoke. Dean's undivided attention was on him, and they were in a rural town, so there was no background ambience to distract from Sam's words.

"She knew about what had happened, somehow," Sam continued. "She took pity on me. Said that deep down I was innocent, or that I deserved innocence. I was too messed up to be listening seriously, to be honest." He laughed feebly at his own words, even though they weren't funny.

"And?" Dean prompted.

"She… she said that she'd bring you back. You were 'good', she told me. Pure of heart or some crap. And the only way that I could tip the cosmic scales to bring you back was to compensate for the evil I've brought into the world. I need to have my slate cleaned, I guess, so that I'm innocent again." Again Sam laughed, hollowly. It was better than facing all of the things that he'd done.

"Compensate," Dean repeated flatly.

"To keep the balance of nature, I think. It's fine, Dean. I'm just… I promised her that I…" He struggled with the delivery of the words; the last thing he wanted was for Dean to kill him on the spot. "I'm going to sacrifice myself to her. She's a goddess, and she needs sacrifices to survive. She said that if… I sacrificed myself in her name, that it would undo the things I've done. That the strength of proving my innocence could bring you back." Sam finished with his eyes looking away from Dean's. Minutes ago he couldn't take his eyes off of his brother, but now he couldn't look him in the eye.

"How much time?" Dean asked, his tone devoid of all emotion.

"The full moon… tonight."

Dean had lunged forward so quickly that Sam had no time to react, and the fist connecting with the side of his face caught him off guard. He didn't cry out, instead letting the blow ripple through him. Dean turned, his breath heavy.

"Dean, we both know this is how it's going to be," Sam said, keeping his tone light. "It's going to be a never-ending cycle, because apparently neither of us has the gumption to-"

"Dammit, Sam, we told each other we wouldn't do this anymore!" Dean interrupted. "We agreed! If you weren't about to friggin' _sacrifice_ yourself to a Greek goddess, I'd break your jaw."

The look in his eyes told Sam that his brother was serious.  
 **"** What was I supposed to do?" he said, more defensively. "Look, you know better than anyone how hard it is to-"

He was interrupted, but not by Dean this time. The walls of the motel began to shake, the paint peeling and the pictures falling off of the walls.

"What the hell?" Sam muttered. He turned to Dean. "Is this an earthquake?"

Dean only frowned at the walls, as though listening for something. Moments later, Sam heard it too; the echoes of a voice - but not just any voice, _Dean's_ voice. It was impossible to tell where it was coming from, because it seemed to echo from every crevice in the room - like the walls and floors themselves were the speakers.

" _So you just turned tail on the family business."_

Dean's echoing voice was angry and cold. Sam looked at Dean, bemused, but Dean looked equally bewildered at the floating, ghostly voice in their motel room.

" _Nothing says family quite like the whole family being dead."_

This time it was Sam's voice. Sam frowned at the nonchalance in his statement; he couldn't recall ever saying anything like that in his life.

" _I wasn't dead. In fact, I was knee-deep in God's armpit killing monsters, which, I thought, is what we actually do."_

" _Yes, Dean. And far as I knew, what we do is the thing that got every single member of my family killed. I had no one – no one. And for the first time in my life, I was completely alone. And, honestly, I-I didn't exactly have a roadmap. So, yeah, I-I fixed up the Impala, and I just... drove."_

Dean's eyes met Sam's. The disembodied conversation was about Purgatory, but it was different - Sam had never said any of this, and nor had Dean.

" _After you looked for me."_

Dean's voice was both angry and questioning. The ghostly Sam voice didn't respond.

" _Did you look for me, Sam?"_

Again, no answer. The motel began to shake again, and Sam was wondering if they should take cover in the bathtub when it suddenly stopped.

"What the hell was that?" Sam asked, standing up. "Some sort of ghost? Or vision, or...or…" He couldn't think of a reasonable explanation.

"Alternate universe," Dean said, his posture and voice tense. "In which you didn't promise to sacrifice yourself and I still got out."

Dean's point was clear; he hated Sam for having done what he did. He despised him for continuing the perpetual cycle of life and death; he abhorred him for doing what they had agreed not to do.

"Don't pull that crap on me, Dean, I know what you're saying," Sam said, and he angrily grabbed a beer and popped it open for the sole purpose of having something to do with his hands. "How was I supposed to know? Alternate universe or not, there's no way that I could have sat and done nothing, letting you rot in Purgatory-"

"But you did," Dean said, his eyes narrowing. "And I got out. And you wouldn't have to sacrifice yourself."

"But I did," Sam said, and to his surprise he was calm. "And this is it. This time, we stop. You're not going to change my mind or anything that happens after I sacrifice myself. Don't do anything, Dean. I mean it."

Dean's glare at him was built from pure hatred. "You think I'd want to bring you back now?" he snarled. "This is all your fault, Sam, this whole mess. You should've left me there, and it all would've been fine."

The words would have stung but Sam didn't care. Maybe it was because he knew he'd be dying, maybe it was the fact that they'd gone through this before. Whatever it was, he was _done._

"Well, I'm sorry I saved your sorry ass," Sam snapped, leaving the motel room without looking back to see if Dean was following. "See you on the other side, someday."

With that he left, and he let his feet carry him to another car. He jumped it, pleased to see that the motel door hadn't reopened. Dean wasn't following him.

Something in his chest felt wrong. Their argument, it wasn't right.

Not that an argument ever felt _right_ , but this one was just wrong. It felt flat, empty. Like there was no emotion in it. It felt… _manufactured_. Maybe that wasn't the right word for it. Whatever it was, it felt off.

Even if Dean was right, and in some strange alternate universe he _hadn't_ saved his brother, Sam still didn't regret what he did. It was better this way, for him to at least die with the knowledge that the goddess of innocence was purging him of the horrible things he'd done in his life, than for Dean to be stuck in "God's armpit".

Dean would be okay, he reasoned. It was only then that it struck him that this was his last day on Earth, and that he wouldn't be returning to the motel that night. The thought made his chest go cold, and again he had the feeling that it was all wrong.

Why would Dean let him go? That couldn't be right. Maybe Astraea hadn't brought Dean back right. He could be a shapeshifter, in place of his brother so that the goddess could get her sacrifice without having to use the mojo to get Dean out of Purgatory.

But that also couldn't be right. Sam had done his homework and summoned Astraea himself, so he was positive that she was the goddess of innocence - and a goddess of innocence wouldn't screw him over. The thought wasn't enough to reassure him and his stomach continued to flip-flop.

He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he hadn't realized his car was drifting into the other lane, and he jerked the wheel to the right as the horn of the car behind him blared.

He picked a lowly inn that was on the outskirts of a town at least two hours away from where he'd taken off from Dean. It smelled like cats and the place looked like it hadn't been cleaned in weeks, but it was cheap and Dean wouldn't think to check the inns.

Sam wasn't taking any chances. He didn't care how pissed Dean was at him; he wasn't going to let his brother be taken back to Purgatory.

That's when the walls started shaking again.

" _Was there a girl?"_ Dean's voice, empty.

" _The girl had nothing to do with it."_

" _There_ was _a girl."_

Dean must've been right. Unless Sam was hallucinating, he'd never had a conversation like this with his brother before.

" _Yeah. There was, and then there wasn't. Any more questions?"_

In this alternate universe Sam clearly hadn't saved Dean; instead, he'd holed up with a girl yet somehow Dean had still made his way back. The walls fell silent again and Sam exhaled a shaky breath. He still needed to do this, because Astraea would take Dean straight back to Purgatory if he didn't.

The sun was setting and Sam felt like he'd plunged into an icy bath but at the same time he felt calm, as though there was absolutely nothing he could do and and he'd accepted his fate. He fingered his phone in his palm, contemplating calling Dean to say goodbye.

On one hand, Dean could track him down and stop him from doing the sacrifice. But on the other hand, this could be his last chance at speaking with his brother. Besides, he was hours away from Dean, and there was no way that his brother could make it there in time to stop him.

He dialed Dean's number.

"Sam." Dean's voice was flat again. Strangely empty of anything.

"Hey. I'm just calling to say… I'm just calling," Sam said, glancing out of the window. The moon was just beginning to rise.

"You going through with the sacrifice?"

"You can't stop me, Dean, I promised I'd save you and that's what I'm doing."

It took Dean several minutes to respond. "I wish you hadn't. I wish that you'd done nothing. We'd both be fine if you'd done nothing."

"You don't know that," Sam said, his voice slightly desperate. He leveled his voice out and added, "Besides, there's a reason it's an alternate universe, Dean - it's not happening here, and it's not going to happen. You've got to accept that this is the way things are, and the only way for you to be saved is for me to do this."

"Go ahead." There was a pause. "See if I care, Sam. You screwed up again. I can't always be cleaning up your messes, 'taking care of my little brother' like Dad always said. You're going to have to deal with it on your own this time."

Sam felt like his breath had been knocked out of him. "Yeah. Uh, I-I get that. Okay. Good."

The phone call ended. Dean had hung up on him.

Sam set the phone down slowly, feeling numb, both physically and emotionally. He glanced out the window; the full moon was definitely out now.

There was no time like the present.

"Astraea?" Sam said to the open air, and the temperature in the room warmed slightly. She was letting him know that she was there, and ready for the sacrifice.

Sam picked up his gun. It was the same one he'd gotten as a teenager. Dean had taught him how to use it. He'd spent hours showing him how to aim, to reload, to clean it, and even flip it in the air so that he could look cool. With the safety on, of course, and the gun unloaded.

It didn't matter that Dean was pissed at him. He'd forgive him eventually, Sam reasoned to himself, loading the gun for the last time.

Funny how a month ago they were preoccupied with Dick Roman and the Leviathans, and now it was him alone again. Funny how quickly the road became a dead end, and how things had changed between him and Dean all within the matter of a day.

He felt the warmth of Astraea again, letting him know that he'd be okay, and that Dean would be okay. He pointed to the gun to his head and fired.

* * *

Dean woke up to Sam's yell of pain. He was out of bed and on his feet immediately, heading across the hallway of the bunker and into his brother's room.

"Sam!" he said loudly, grabbing his brother's shoulder. Sam flew upward, his eyes wide and wet with tears.

"Dean?" Sam said, slightly breathless. "I thought - I was - Astraea… she…"

"Sammy, it was a nightmare," Dean said, his hand still on Sam's shoulder.

"It was so real," Sam said quietly, leaning back on his forearms. "It was several years ago, and I… I actually did something about you being in Purgatory. I saved you, and sacrificed myself. But you were angry with me for saving me, and you didn't care…" The feeling of the gun to his head cut him short.

Dean wasn't sure if Sam was delirious or had actually dreamt that, but he shook it off. Talking about Purgatory opened old wounds between them that he didn't want to provoke. "It wasn't real, Sam."

"It was as real as the others," Sam said, his eyes slightly red. "Just as real. It was like an alternate universe, but I saved you, and I shot myself, but you hung up on me-"

"Sam, it's okay. You're in the bunker, not in some crap timeline," Dean assured him. "And you're not _there_ either." He waited for Sam's breathing to slow. "You good?"

"Yeah. I'm fine," Sam said, straightening slightly. "Just… a really vivid dream."

"I swear, if we come across that bitch again, I'll rip her lungs out," Dean muttered. This was the third night in a row that Sam had been having nightmares. Ever since that Toni Brit had tortured him, and drugged him, he'd been having hallucination-dreams; dreams so real to Sam that they woke him up, yelling.

Cas had healed the physical wounds that she'd inflicted on Sam, but the effects of the drug on his mind had messed with him. And anyone that messed with Sam's mind (which had a record of being messed with) was officially on Dean's hit list.

Dean got up and refilled Sam's glass of water, and then it gave it to his little brother. Sam accepted it gratefully, taking small sips. His forehead was sweating and his eyes were still red-rimmed.

"It'll blow over eventually," Dean said to him, sitting down on his bed. "Whatever the hell she did to you, whatever she gave you, it'll get better."  
Sam lifted his eyes up. "Yeah." He didn't sound convinced.

"So… this nightmare," Dean said after a moment. "You saved me from Purgatory?"

"Yeah. I sacrificed myself to the goddess of innocence," Sam said, smiling slightly. "If only I'd actually done that-"

"'If only'?" Dean repeated incredulously. "If only you had killed yourself so that way you could die knowing you'd saved me from Purgatory? We've gone over this since, Sam, I forgave you years ago."

Sam snorted slightly. "No matter what I do, you'll be pissed at me."

"Yeah. That's what you get for being a little bitch all the time," Dean bantered, standing up. "It's two in the morning. Think you'll be okay?"

"Yeah," Sam said immediately, and Dean was glad to see that the stiffness in Sam's face had disappeared.

"I'll leave my door open," Dean said, and the message was clear. It would be like they'd be sleeping in the same room, like they were accustomed to. They'd grown up sleeping near each other. Having both of their doors open, knowing the other was right across the hall, was comforting - though Dean would never say that openly.

"G'night," Sam said, and then he added, his eyes brightening slightly, "Thanks, jerk."

 **A/N:** I'm not sure if this was too confusing so I'm sorry if the plot seemed a bit tangled! Thank you so much for reading, and I appreciate all of the reviews!

By the way, I'm PSYCHED at the amount of support this story has gotten! 54 favorites and 75 follows - I never thought it would get this much! Thank you so much to every single one of you, you're all awesome!


	22. Blinded

**Prompt:** Thank you so much to Animalsarepeopletoo for this prompt!

During a hunt, Dean sets off an explosion in order to get rid of a monster, and Sam is hit with the brunt of the supernatural force and is knocked out. When he wakes up, he's blind.

I only put a bit of the prompt in here because I followed it so poorly… I feel bad about it but I just couldn't get the prompt written!

 **Set:** Season 2.

 **A/N:** Okay, so… I admit that I veered off of the path of the prompt a LOT. I don't usually do this and I apologize, hopefully it is still good!

Also, I should add, I've got no knowledge of blindness, or explosives (or anything, really, I'm just a high schooler sitting in my room writing fanfiction when I should be doing my summer homework), so I apologize for any factual errors :)

Lastly, here's some shameless self-promoting! I wrote a new Supernatural fic called "Just Keep Swimming" that has a bunch of connected stories involving motel swimming pools Sam and Dean have been to over the years – feel free to check it out!

* * *

Sam knew that a day in their lives was full of spontaneity and danger, but this was just getting ridiculous. He'd just come out of surgery and his head felt like it had been blown by loud earbuds; apparently, having ten visions in one day didn't do much for his physical well-being.

It had all started in the empty house of a suburban family while they were on a hunt.

"This isn't a good idea."

"You know another way to kill this son of a bitch?" Dean asked, setting the explosives up. "Knives don't kill it. Bullets don't kill it. Clearly, strangling it doesn't kill it. It's too fast for us to use the blowtorch on."

"Yeah," Sam agreed reluctantly. He swung his flashlight across the living room, making sure that the monster didn't suddenly return while they were distracted.

They were in the home of a family who had been afflicted by a strange monster that had no name; neither Sam, Dean, or Bobby could find it in the lore. They did discover, however, that fire hurt it, so they were counting on the explosives to finish it.

Unfortunately that also meant that the family's house would be blown up. They'd already prepared to leave town as soon as they blew up the monster. As far as the family was concerned, there were rats in their house, so they went to the movie theatre while the "pest control" got rid of them.

Dean finished setting up the explosives. "We need to attract the monster," he said. "Blood should do it."

"I'll do it," Sam said automatically. Ever since their dad had passed away, Dean had been aggressive and reckless, so he had been taking every chance to act as the older brother.

Dean frowned at him but said nothing as Sam cut across his own forearm and dripped the blood onto the floor.

"Alright, let's move outside," Dean said, glancing around. "Before Fugly shows his face again."

They headed towards the front door quickly, listening for the rattling sound that would indicate the monster was coming.

"Hang on," Sam said suddenly as Dean opened the door. He looked back into the dark house. "What's that sound?"

"It's the sound of that thing coming to check out your fragrant blood," Dean said brusquely, tugging at Sam's arm. "Dude, hurry."

"No… it's clicking." Sam listened harder at the click-click sound that was emanating from the living room.

"Sam, this thing hits the explosives, the house is going up!" Dean said, his voice becoming a shout. "Let's _go_."

Realization dawned as Sam suddenly placed the clicking sound.

It was the click of nails against the floor. The sound of a four-legged creature walking along the hardwood, unaware of what was in the living room.

"There's a dog in there!" Sam said, and he didn't wait for Dean's reaction, ripping his arm away and tearing into the house.

Sure enough, there was an old golden retriever walking slowly into the living room. His ears lifted at the sight of Sam and his tail gave a short wag. Sam dived for the dog just as the rattling sound came from in front of him.

"Sam, get the dog and get the hell out!" Dean was yelling. He'd followed Sam back in and was waving their blowtorch at the monster, barely keeping it at bay. The dog safely in Sam's arms, they turned on their heels and sprinted out of the house, the rattling following them.

Dean's explosives worked just as planned. There was a pregnant pause in which the rattling stopped, as though the monster knew what was about to happen, and then the world rippled and seized.

They were halfway out the front door. Sam was propelled forward by the force and he rolled onto his back in the air, keeping the dog safely in his arms.

The roar that accompanied the blast rang in his ears as he seemingly floated in the air for two seconds before dropping to the ground, his the back of his head nailing something hard and knocking him out.

* * *

Dean landed painfully in the grass, rolling a few feet before coming to a stop. The house was still exploding and the walls were crumbling.

He felt bad for the family, who was at the movies and had no idea their house was being blown to bits, but at the same time he looked at the explosion with pride.

He'd built those explosives on his own.

He turned to see how Sam had fared and worry immediately gripped him at the sight of his unconscious little brother. The dog was wriggling out of Sam's arms and looked dazed but okay, and had even stooped to kiss Sam's face.

"Sam! Hey!" Dean said, grabbing his brother's face. "You with me?"

To his relief there was a groan, and then Sam was opening his eyes.

"The… the dog. Is he okay?" were his first words.

"The dog's fine," Dean told him, looking at the dog who was now looking at the burning house with his tongue dangling out of his mouth. "He's pretty oblivious, actually." Dean grabbed his phone out of his pocket and dialed 911.

Sam started to say something, but a loud screech and rattle followed by a shining bright light in the house told Dean that the monster had died. He twirled his flashlight in his fingers, satisfied, before digging his keys out of his pocket.

"Let's get the hell out of dodge," he said, waiting for Sam to stand up.

"Dean!" Sam's voice was panicked.

"What? We need to leave," Dean said, getting impatient at Sam's slowness.

"I told you, I can't see!"

"What? What do you mean you can't see?"

"I - can't - _friggin'_ \- see!" Each word was strained and on the edge of meltdown. That was what scared Dean more than the words themselves; Sam was the most composed person he knew.

"Okay. It's probably just because of the explosion, your senses are whacked or something," Dean said, keeping his own voice calm. "I'll take a look at your eyes, Sammy, but first we need to leave. The police will be here soon and we can't explain ourselves out of exploding a damn suburban house."

Sam nodded stiffly but he allowed Dean to help him up and lead him back to the Impala. He kept squinting, rubbing at his eyes as though trying to clear away the darkness. Even with Dean guiding him he walked slowly, afraid to trip over an unseen obstacle.

"Sam, I won't let you walk into anything," Dean promised him, as though hearing his thoughts. "Yet," he added, and it sounded like he was grinning.

"Dean, I'm gonna…" Sam nearly lost his voice completely before vomiting onto the sidewalk. Dean jerked him back to stop the projectile of vomit from hitting their shoes.

"How hard did you hit your head?" Dean demanded, going for the back of Sam's head. A lump was already forming and it was trickling blood.

"I don't know!" Sam said, and Dean didn't miss the tremor in his voice. They reached the Impala and Dean quickly got his little brother in.

"Where are we going? We can't go back to the motel, the police will be scouring the town," Sam said, blindly looking at a spot a few inches away from where Dean's eyes were.

"Is your sight coming back?" Dean asked, driving faster than he should've on the narrow road. He kept his voice steady - Sam could only hear him right now, and if he stayed calm, it would keep Sam calm. He'd learned that after years of experience with injuries as minor as skinned knees to when Sam's eyes bled after Bloody Mary attacked him.

"No," Sam said, his voice a bit higher than usual. "Everything's still dark."

"Yeah. We're going to the hospital," Dean said, jerking the wheel to the right when he almost missed the turn.

Sam said nothing in objection. "Dean, I've heard of this before. The head gets knocked, and the retinas-"  
 **"** How are you staying so freakin' calm about this? What are you, Yoda?" Dean snapped. His original goal of staying calm had already vanished. "And it's my fault you're like this, I'm the one who thought the damn explosives would be a good idea!"

"Dean, I'm trying not to freak out," Sam said, his breaths short. "It… it friggin' hurts, and I feel like I'm about to pass out - I just-" He winced suddenly, bringing his hands to his temples.

"Shit!" Dean said, pulling the Impala off to the side of the road. "Sam?"

Sam said nothing; his forehead was strained and his eyes screwed up in pain. Dean grabbed his brother's shoulder, shaking it slightly, but it gave Sam no reaction at all; either his brother was passing out from pain or was having a vision - or both.

He did a quick search for the nearest hospital.

There was one in the town over, about thirty-five minutes away. Dean stepped on the gas, keeping one hand firmly across his unconscious little brother's chest so that he wouldn't go flying forward.

"Stop!" Sam's shout made Dean slam on the brakes. Sam's eyes had flown open, wild.

"What?!" Dean asked. "Vision?"  
Sam nodded silently. His skin was pale and sweating, and though his head wasn't bleeding much, it was beginning to stain the top of his shirt. Dean tore off his flannel and placed it against the back of Sam's head.

"We're thirty-five minutes from the hospital, dude," he said, starting to drive forward again. "Can you hang in until then?"

"My eyes… they hurt," Sam whispered, and to Dean's surprise they were welled with tears. "I.. I can't see. I can't see _still_. What if I can't see again?"  
 **"** That's why we're headed to the hospital. They can fix it," Dean said much more confidently than he felt. "These things happen all the time."

"No, they don't, Dean."

"What was your vision?" Dean asked, changing the subject. "Someone about to die?"

Sam winced again. "No. It was just a snippet of a girl my age combing her hair. I don't know what it means. I couldn't figure out where she was, either. There were pine trees outside of her window, but that's all I could see."

"Great. A vision and blindness. The damn universe just loves irony, especially with us," Dean snorted, even though it wasn't funny. It made Sam smile, though briefly.

They came to a stoplight and Dean turned to his brother. "Stay still," he ordered, gently holding Sam's face towards the light and examining his eyes. Tiny blood vessels were reddening in the whites of his eyes and the pupils were a bit uneven.

"You might have a concussion, too," Dean said, letting him go to take the wheel again as the light changed to green.

"Yeah." Sam's eyes had drifted shut and he was holding the edge of the car door tightly.

"You gonna puke again?"

"No, I'm just… trying to… I'm fine," Sam said, turning his head away.

"How do you feel?"

"I said I'm fine, Dean," Sam said, but even without looking at Sam's expression Dean could hear the pain in his voice.

"Okay. So we know there's a girl combing her hair," Dean said, opting to change the subject back to the vision. "Have you seen her before?"  
No answer.

"Sam?"

"Oh. Uh, no."

"You awake over there?" Dean asked, turning on the radio for background noise. "Because if you have a concussion, you shouldn't-"

"I'm awake. I'm just…" Sam rubbed his hands over his temples again. "My head's just foggy. Or something."

"Okay. Was there anything at all unusual about the chick? Blood on the wall? Flickering lights? Lasers coming out of her eyes?"

"Don't you think I would've… told you? If there was something?" Sam's words were getting slower and thicker, as though he were disoriented.

"Well, why would you have the vision, then?" Dean said, annoyed. "There's got to be some sort of reason."

He was cut off by Sam's gasp of pain again.

"Crap," he muttered as his brother's hands flew to his temples. "What the hell?" He kept driving, his eyes more on Sam than the road. "Another vision? Sam, can you hear me? Sam!"

"I-I can hear you," Sam said, his voice mostly a groan. "Ow."

"Vision?" Dean confirmed.

"Yeah." Sam's voice was confused. "Of a guy this time. He was in a gym, running on a treadmill. That's it. There was nothing-" He stopped dead, his eyes shut again. This time, they opened quicker, and Dean could see the pure panic in them.

"They won't stop!" he cried out, eyes searching for Dean yet unable to see him. "Dean, there's another vision, and they won't stop - it hurts - I just saw a different guy, he was eating food-"

"Did you just get another vision?" Dean said, bewildered. "How the hell do you get three different visions in ten minutes?"

"I don't know," Sam said, his chest rising and falling much quicker than usual. "Dean, they keep coming!"

The plea for his brother was something Dean hadn't heard in a long time, not since Sam was in middle school.

"Okay, listen," Dean said, still driving despite how focused he was on Sam. "We're going to figure this out. It's probably your psychic freaking out at your loss of sight. You know how people have better hearing or smelling or whatever when they lose their sight?"

Sam nodded, his eyes still blank and searching.

"Your sixth sense is just acting up in reaction," Dean rationalized. "We're gonna fix this, Sammy, and then they're going to stop." He kept rambling without realizing exactly what he was saying, but Sam looked like he was relaxing a bit.

* * *

 **Twenty-eight hours later**

"Home sweet home," Dean said as they unlocked the door to their new motel of the week. It was a disgusting one - even worse than usual - since the hospital bill had been overwhelmingly high. They couldn't even buy dinner that night; they'd gone through all of their credit cards and funds.  
 **"** I'll go to the bar and make some money," Dean said as they entered the room. "Hopefully we'll have enough to get a pizza tonight. And pain meds."

"I'm fine," Sam said automatically, but really, he felt far from fine. He didn't even remember entering the hospital. He'd been wracked with visions and had, according to Dean, freaked the nurses out because of his reactions to the visions.

Dean had been right. As soon as his sight was back, the visions stopped coming at three a minute. And even better was the fact that his sight was back in the first place; it had taken surgery to reattach the retina, but they'd gotten to the hospital in time for it to be fixed.

Dean lingered with the keys in his hand. "You sure you're good?"

"Really. I'm fine, Dean," Sam assured him, reclining on the bed.

"Well, you had a pretty crappy day yesterday."

"Yeah," Sam acknowledged. He forced a smile. "Going blind and having repeated visions kind of ruins your day."

"You want to come?"

"Nah, I'm good. I'll watch some t.v.," Sam said, fishing the remote off of the nightstand. "You good?"

Dean startled. "I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?" With that he left, offering Sam one last grin before getting into the Impala.

Sam could see through his brother's facade. They'd lost their father and now Dean was terrified of losing Sam.

Of course, he didn't show it. He was abrasive and rude when Sam was okay. But whenever danger was imminent, Sam could see it (and, in the case of yesterday, apparently he could sense it, too) - the sheer panic. Dean couldn't handle losing his brother, not right after his father.

But, Sam considered, he felt the same way towards Dean as well. If Dean ever got hurt, or died, he wasn't quite sure how he would cope, and if he could at all.

He flicked on the television, and fell asleep to the fuzzy background sound of a nature documentary.

 **A/N:** *wincing* Okay, okay, let me explain. Animalsarepeopletoo gave me an amazing prompt and I really struggled to write the plot in. So instead I turned it into a short one-shot with hurt and comfort. I know that I'm missing a TON of key scenes (honestly, this should be a multi-chapter fic, if anyone wants to take it up - you're welcome to!) and I'm very sorry about this. For all of you who like a short one-shot without much detail, well, hopefully this appeased you!

Anyway, I just had a hard time getting this written, and that's why it's lacking so many details. Thank you all for taking the time to read my rushed writing, it does mean a lot to me!


	23. Bitten

**Prompt:** Thanks so much, CabbyCat, for this prompt!

Maybe if you want you could write one where Sam loses or somehow can't use his voice and so he can't call out for help on a hunt.

 **Set:** During season 13 sometime after Dean starts trusting Jack.

 **A/N:** I made up the monster for this chapter… so the "lore" that I speak of is actually nonexistent, in case anyone was wondering :D

* * *

"Jack, are you even listening?" Dean demanded. Jack quickly looked back to Dean with a slight look of guilt, like a child who had been caught sneaking into the cookie jar.

Every so often, they'd find a fun hunt. There weren't many, mainly because most entailed disgusting motels, greasy diners, and ignorant townspeople. But sometimes, there would be a hunt in the area that happened to be in a nice town.

This had to set a record for "fun" hunts, Dean had decided. They were at Universal Studios in Orlando, Florida, searching for the sitju monster that had been terrorizing tourists every quarter of the lunar cycle.

"Sorry," Jack said, his eyes downcast. "It's so… magical. I've never seen anything so beautiful."

They were standing in the center of the village from Harry Potter, Hogsmeade. The snow-capped houses had amazed Jack, who had never seen anything like it, let alone the castle in the distance.

Even more pleasing was the fact that they were alone in the park. Hogsmeade was empty and silent, since it was one in the morning. When the security patrols had come through hours ago to ensure that no one was left in the park, it had taken a simple touch to the head from Cas and Jack to make them go home without questioning the fact that there were four men still in the park.

It was definitely one of the perks of having a nephilim and an angel on your side.

"Okay, so, Jack, you'll be on the left, over there," Dean said, pointing to one of the little houses. "The sitju should come from the front of Hogsmeade, that way-" He pointed distantly in the general direction to where Sam was busy setting up a trap for the sitju that would slow it down. "When it hits the trap, you're going to use your mojo to stop it from breaking free. Think you can handle that?"

Jack nodded importantly, his brow creased.

"Cas, you've gotta be the one to banish the sitju," Dean said, pulling out the paper that Sam had scribbled the ritual onto. "Sam and I already made the blood sacrifice, so you won't need to do that, but it needs to be read by 'one who has seen a thousand years'. It won't work for anyone else."

The sitju was an ancient monster that they were dealing with. It was only the size of a dog, but it was a vicious, pale creature that could eat a human within a matter of minutes. According to Cas, the beast had been around for thousands of years, and was responsible for the disappearance of Atlantis. Fortunately, Cas knew of it and also knew how to kill it - decapitation and a stab to the heart with a silver blade dipped in fire, followed by a banishing ritual that would inhibit it from returning.

So, Jack would be covering Sam and Dean while they attacked the sitju, and Cas would be ready to read the string of Sanskrit.

"The trap's ready," Sam said, having returned. He cleared his throat, then added, "It's almost time."

The sitju was supposed to come at 1:30 in the morning, because it liked to wander the village before feeding on an unfortunate worker who came early in the morning. It was surprising that there were still tourists even coming to the park; the spot had been pegged as a serial killer's grounds and was labeled as dangerous to visit.

"Alright. Let's go ice this bitch," Dean said, swinging his gun up and loading it with ammunition. Cas and Jack made their way to their spots while he and Sam camped out behind a bench, waiting for the monster to draw near.

"After we kill it, we should stay for a few days," Dean said abruptly as they waited in the still night air together.

Sam snorted. "We're low on money. We haven't hustled in at least a week."

"We could always max out the credit cards and then find some new ones to use," Dean said nonchalantly.

"It's not that easy, Dean."

"Or we could just hustle for the next few days so that we'd have enough money to get into the park," Dean said, then after glancing around he added, "During the day. Legitimately. Not for a hunt at one in the morning."

"Yeah," Sam said tentatively.

"Well, we don't have to stay in friggin' Universal Studios, pansy," Dean said moodily. "If Hogwarts isn't exciting enough for you."

"It's not that," Sam said quickly. He fumbled for words. "It's just… I don't know. The way that you planned out this hunt reminds me of Dad."

Dean was struck dumb for a few moments. "Dad? Why?"

Sam shrugged. "I was listening to you while I was setting up the trap. You reminded me of him. And then I just got to thinking about.. Nevermind."

Dean's chest felt hollow at the thought of his father. It had been years since he'd really dwelled on him; of course, he and Sam referenced his journal and the occasional memory, but otherwise their father was as gone from their lives as Azazel was.

There had been a time when he'd been so upset over his father's death that he'd destroyed Baby out of grief. It was difficult to imagine doing that now. When had his father become a distant memory instead of a role model?

"Remember that time we did a hunt near here?" Sam asked. "Dad said that we'd go to Disney after. But we didn't."  
 **"** Bobby had an emergency," Dean remembered, and out of habit he went to his father's defense. "We had to get the hell to South Dakota."

"Yeah, but we never came back here." Sam's voice was mournful.

"You're annoyed that Dad never took us to an amusement park in Florida," Dean surmised.

"No!" Sam said automatically, giving Dean an irritated expression. "It's just memories, you know?"  
 **"** Yeah," Dean agreed. They fell into companionable silence for the next six minutes.

Sam shifted beside Dean, stretching his legs out. "You think Cas and Jack can handle this hunt?"

"Cas? Yeah. He's dealt with enemies before," Dean said. "Jack… I hope so. The sitju's no salt and burn."

They'd told Jack a hundred times exactly how to deal with the sitju. The creature relied entirely upon its super-hearing, so it was critical to stay as silent as possible. Even the slightest bit of ragged breathing could alert the monster to a human's exact whereabouts, and then their dependency on its blindness would be futile.

"Listen," Sam said suddenly, leaning forward slightly. In the distance there was a rapid trampling sound, like feet moving swiftly over the ground.

The sitju arrived in a blur and nailed Sam's trap hard, roaring in anger as it was caught tightly in the wires. Dean rolled out from his hiding spot by the bench, hearing Sam's light footsteps behind him.

The scream of the sitju was unlike any sound Dean had ever heard. It was piercing yet low, like a string of a cello that was wailing in agony.

"Now, Jack!" he bellowed, seeing Jack standing dumbfounded behind the creature with his arm outstretched. Dean waited for the familiar nephilim energy to pulse throughout Hogsmeade, but… nothing. The air remained still save for the thrashing of the creature.

"Dammit," he snarled, heading towards the writhing creature despite the fact that it wasn't being held in place by Jack. There wasn't time to question it; it would get loose any moment.

Sam was sprinting next to him with his machete raised - it was Sam's job to decapitate the monster, and Dean would be the one to stab it in the heart with the silver knife.

"Dean! Left!" Sam shouted, and Dean didn't hesitate in moving to his left, onto the other side of the monster.

"Jack, mojo!" Dean yelled as he wrestled with the monster, keeping its gnashing teeth away from his own face.

"I can't!" he heard Jack shouting distantly. "It's not coming!"

They had become a tangle of limbs. Cas had joined, and Dean could hear him shouting something in frustration.

It was as though the sitju had cancelled out the angel and nephilim grace.

A loud snap echoed through the night as the wires broke free and the sitju tackled Dean, its teeth narrowly missing his neck-

The monster shrieked in pain as a dagger pierced through its chest. Dean hacked at its throat and to his disdain the knife didn't cut all the way through. The sitju screamed with rage and pain, its head lolling off of its neck, and then howled upwards. The sheer volume of the howl made Dean stop in his tracks before finally chopping the rest of its head off. Cas immediately began the ritual, and the sitju exploded into dust.

"Bastard," Dean grumbled, feeling his neck where the teeth had nearly gotten him. "From now on we're leaving these damn things for other hunters. Did it cancel out your mojo or something?" He looked from Jack to Cas, who didn't have a chance to answer.

The sound of footsteps - _many_ footsteps - made them turn to the left.

"Dean?" Sam said in a low voice. "I think that it called its pack." The moment the words left his mouth, a pack of sitjus came barreling around the corner of Hogsmeade.

"Run!" Dean found himself yelling, because they had no chance of taking on all of these monsters at once, not when Jack and Cas were practically as useless as civilians.

He didn't see where Sam went. They were sprinting down the village, running to absolutely nowhere. He could see Cas's trench coat flapping in the corner of his eye and Jack on his right.

"Dean!" Jack shouted. "I can fly, I'll get them! Give me the knife!"

"Hell, no!" Dean said automatically, gripping his silver knife tighter. Jack had no experience with stabbing; he was practically a baby. He wasn't even a year old, Dean reminded himself.

Dammit. He could be in the bunker enjoying a beer, yet here he was, sprinting through a friggin' whimsical, snowy village with a pack of rabid monsters at his heels.

"Keep going!" he shouted to Cas and Jack, and turned to face the growling monsters.

* * *

Dean might be a good hunter, Sam though irritatedly, but he was a terrible communicator, whether it was emotions or what his plans were. Sam was busy retrieving the machete as the pack of sitjus arrived when Dean, Cas, and Jack took off, two of the three sitjus pursuing them.

The third started to follow its pack before deciding to turn around and prey on Sam instead.

"Dean!" he shouted, because the last thing they needed was to split up. The monster would need a team effort to kill, because without Cas or the silver blade, he was screwed. Dean either didn't hear or was ignoring him - Sam figured it was the former - so he ran into the nearest shop.

It was black inside and there were shelves filled with assorted candies. Sam dove underneath the stairwell just before the sitju entered the shop, landing rather ungracefully as he tried to keep the crashing sound to a bare minimum.

He almost forgot to hold his breath, and upon remembering that sitjus relied on hearing he clasped a hand over his own mouth. The monster blindly traipsed across the room, knocking into shelves but not seeming to care.

There was the sound of fighting outside of the shop, and from where he was sitting Sam could see Dean in the distance, stabbing a sitju. Jack was teleporting around - apparently, the grace-cancelling effect of the monster didn't affect his wings - and distracting the monsters.

The shop was deadly silent. Sam backed up as much as possible whilst taking care to not make a floorboard creak, gripping the machete tightly. Even if he managed to decapitate the monster, it could still use its claws on him, and they were wicked sharp. His best chance was for Dean to finish killing the others and get the silver dagger in there.

His lungs were desperate for more air but Sam didn't dare breathe more than a miniscule amount through his nose. The sitju was still circling the shop. It knew Sam was in there, and it was waiting for him to make a sound.

How ironic. He was sitting in the shop of a fictitious village, a place he'd wanted to go to for years (who didn't want to go to Harry Potter world?) and yet he was being stalked by an enraged monster. If his life was summed up into one disappointing moment, this would be it.

In the distance Cas was chanting and both sitjus had been decapitated and stabbed. Sam couldn't help but feel impressed by the others' prowess; the sitju wasn't easy to take down. On the other hand, it only irritated him, because he was the one defenseless and hiding underneath a staircase. Some hunter he was.

"Sam!" Dean called out from outside. "Where are you?"

 _Shit_. He'd have to wait for Dean to find him. If he even tried to whisper to his brother right now, Sam realized with a sinking feeling, the sitju would be on him in moments and he had no way to kill it.

Dean called his name again. Sam gritted his teeth; why couldn't the sitju leave him alone and go after the hunters outside who _could_ kill it? But the monster seemed set on finding Sam, and it only turned its head towards Dean's voice, nothing more.

Dean was still calling for him outside, his shouts touched with panic now.

The sitju was prowling near him, its ugly head swiveling around to listen for any movement. Sam pressed himself against the wall behind the stairs, closing his eyes. The breath of the sitju brushed his face; it smelled like rotten garbage. He resisted the urge to cough and leaned back farther.

"SAM!" Dean's voice echoed through Hogsmeade and once again the sitju's ears cocked towards the sound but it did not act on it. It knew Sam was near, and it wasn't planning on giving up.

The monster snorted in frustration and warm breath breezed by Sam's face again. Slowly, the monster determined that Sam must not be under the staircase, and turned around to go upstairs. Sam released a small breath of relief but didn't dare move.

He could see Dean through the window.

 _Look this way, Dean_ , Sam thought desperately, even though if Dean happened to look his way there would be no chance of him seeing Sam through the darkened window.

Dean was reaching into his pocket. It was like slow motion. He pulled out his phone. It took Sam only a moment to realize what his brother was about to do.

The sitju's claws were clacking on the floor above him and thankfully it drowned out all of the noise Sam made fumbling into his own jacket to retrieve his phone. He glanced up; Dean was still dialing. With shaking fingers he tapped at the volume, trying to turn it down before-

He was too late. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dean pressing his phone to his ear just as the shrill sound emitted from Sam's own phone. He winced, silencing it immediately, but there was no way the sitju hadn't heard it.

The sitju came crashing down the stairs, snarling, and Sam barely had time to roll out from under the stairs before snapping jaws lunged towards him. He yelled out as the teeth grabbed his leg, and he slashed wildly with the knife.

The sitju tore harder and Sam could feel the yell coming out of his mouth but couldn't hear it. Adrenaline pumped through him and he leaped forward, ripping his leg out of the monster's jaws, and jumped on top of the sitju. Sam clung to it, despite its writhing, and began to hack at its thick neck like an axe with a tree. The shriek that came out of the monster made him want to clap his hands over his ears but that wasn't an option, so he continued to stab until the head popped off of the beast.

The sitju bucked violently, its body shaking with anger or fear Sam wasn't quite sure, but it was now missing a head and was still quite alive. He fell back on his injured leg and cried out as his weight came down on it, collapsing to the floor. The sitju's claws stumbled near him, ready to attack, and Sam closed his eyes. He didn't have the silver knife. He couldn't kill it.

"Hey, dickhead!" Dean was yelling as he came sprinting into the shop. "That's my brother!" He dive-tackled the monster away from Sam and they both went crashing into the shelf. Candies flew everywhere, scattering across the wooden floor. The silver knife fell from Dean's hand, skidding to the other side of the shop.

Sam gritted his teeth and heaved himself up, dragging his lame leg behind him as he dashed to the other side of the shop. He lunged for the dagger and gripped it tightly in his hand, whirling around to where Dean was pinned to the floor by the bloody, headless monster.

"Dean!" he shouted, throwing the knife to his brother. Dean caught it and stabbed the monster in the heart, grimacing at the monster before giving the knife a good twist.

"Cas!" he shouted, and Sam startled; he hadn't realized the angel was next to him until he started to recite the words that would end the sitju.

"Sam!" Dean said immediately, coming to Sam's side. He hadn't even noticed he was swaying until Dean had steadied him. "Sit down, dude, that leg's gotta hurt."

Sam sat obediently, sliding to the floor with a gasp. His leg was torn at the calf, bleeding freely and heavily.

"It's not too deep, but it's wide," Dean noted, taking off his own flannel to wrap around Sam's leg.

"Just… take me to Madame Pomfrey," Sam said, looking down at his leg dizzily. The blood felt hot and sticky and it was making him feel nauseous.

"You're such a nerd." Dean's hands skirted the wound, examining the muscle and flesh. "Cas? Is your mojo back?"

Cas closed his eyes. "It's returning," he said confidently after a brief moment of contemplation. "I will be able to heal Sam within a half an hour."

Jack bent down next to it. "That's… so much blood," he said, his mouth twisted in a strange combination of fear and morbid fascination. "Does it hurt?"

"Like hell," Sam confirmed.

"What did you guys do before Cas?" Jack said, turning to Dean with wonder. "How are you not dead?"

Dean chuckled. "Been there, done that," he said elusively. "Our dad knew a crap ton of first aid."

Sam stayed focused on their voices but his chest only felt more and more nauseous. It didn't help that his leg was directly in his vantage point, the blood soaking through the flannel and pooling beneath him.

His incredibly dry mouth somehow got dryer and that was when the edges of his vision began to darken.

"What about you, Jack? Can you-" Dean didn't finish his sentence; instead, he gesticulated healing Sam's leg.

Jack's voice sounded distant and muffled. There was a distinct ringing in Sam's ears and he could no longer deny what was about to happen, so he gave a short warning to Dean - something along the lines of "Gonna pass out" - and succumbed to the blackness in his vision.

* * *

Dean could never get accustomed to Cas's healing powers. He knew Sam would be okay - a bleeding leg was dangerous, but not when you had an angel on your side - but seeing his brother keel over instilled a new fear in him.

"Sam!" he said in a near bellow, immediately lifting his brother's limp head from the floor. "Shit, that's a lot of blood. Cas, are you sure that-"  
 **"** I can restore the blood to him," Cas promised, nodding curtly. "You do not need to fear for Sam's life. I have told you before, I swear to watch over you two. Sam will be okay."

Dean gently rubbed Sam's shoulder. "Dude."

Sam stirred slightly. "Ow."

"Yeah. You fainted. Always the damsel in distress," Dean said, bantering to keep himself from worrying. There was no need to worry, he reminded himself. No need at all.

"You try… losing blood and not passing out," Sam said slowly, peering at his leg. He leaned back, pale, with a weak smile. "Yeah. I guess I can't look at it."

"Pansy," Dean snorted.

Sam smiled. "Yeah, then what does that make you? You passed out the first time you got nicked by a knife."

"How would you remember? You were three," Dean countered. "Dumbass."

Sam laughed and then winced, arms shooting for his leg. Dean slapped his hands away. "Don't touch it," he reprimanded. "Not too much longer. Only…" He looked to Cas.

"Six minutes and thirty-four seconds," Cas confirmed. "I'm sorry, Sam, that I can't heal you sooner," he added diplomatically.

"S'fine," Sam said nonchalantly, but Dean could see the pain in his brother's eyes. Safe from dying or not, seeing his brother hurt was stressful.

The four of them sat in the darkened Hogsmeade shop in silence, waiting. Dean kept a firm hand on Sam's shoulder the entire time, because he could see the alertness in Sam's eyes dwindling the longer he laid on the floor with his leg soaking in his own blood.

"Not too much longer," Dean said abruptly, keeping his arm assuringly around Sam, who had slipped farther down the floor and was slouched low. "Hold on, dude."

Sam didn't respond, but his eyes were open and staring at his own leg.

"Remember when this happened to you?" Sam asked after a minute.

Dean paused, trying to process what Sam meant. "You mean when I hurt my leg in Albuquerque?"

"No. Lancaster."

"Yeah. Yeah, that wasn't fun," Dean said, smiling at the memory.

"What happened in Lancaster?" Jack asked, leaning forward.

"Dad took us to Canobie Lake Park for the day in between hunts," Dean explained. "I think it was the first and last time he ever brought us to an amusement park. That was my bad, partially."

"It was completely your fault," Sam interjected, but Dean ignored him.

"We went on a ride - I can't remember what it was now - and I stuck my arm out of the cart. My arm got caught on some of the machinery and I got a huge gash from my wrist to elbow." He rounded on Sam. "And it was _not_ entirely my fault. You were the one whining about the damn heat the whole day."

"That's not why Dad never took us back, though," Sam argued, shifting from where he was leaned against the shelf. Instantly a groan escaped his lips and he paled at the movement of his leg.

"Stay still," Dean ordered. "You're friggin' leg is bleeding out so anything you say is pain-induced, anyway, bitch." He didn't remove his arm from around Sam's shoulders, though.

"You're such a jerk," Sam said, his voice fading again. "Uh, Dean? I think I might pass out again."

Dean instantly pulled Sam closer. "Hang in there. Cas? Are you good?"

Cas closed his eyes. "I think so," he said finally, and he rolled up his sleeves. Arm outstretched, he placed his palm against Sam's leg and a warm glow filled the shop. After a mere three seconds it was gone, and Sam was blinking.

"You good now, gimp?" Dean asked, removing his arm from his brother.

"Yeah. Thanks, Cas," Sam said gratefully, sitting up from where he had been slouched. He stood up, testing his leg.

"Let's get out of here," Dean said, looking around at Hogsmeade slightly guiltily. "They're going to have a lot to clean up in the morning."

They climbed over the fallen shelves and exited the shop, heading back towards where the Impala was parked. The Florida night air was balmy against their skin and Dean lifted his eyes to the sky, appreciating the expanse of stars above the snow-blanketed homes of Hogsmeade.

"First thing in the morning I'll book our motel room for several more days," he said recklessly. "We're gonna stay here for a bit longer." He looked sideways at his brother, who had a smile crossing his lips.

If only John Winchester could see them now, he thought, amused. His two sons, at Universal Studios with the son of Lucifer and an angel.

 **A/N:** I took so long with this chapter that I skimmed it once and declared it good to publish, so forgive me for any typos. I haven't personally been satisfied with my own writing lately and that's why it took me so long to update, but fear not! I will never leave fan fiction! *cue me in the future at ninety years old still writing speculations for sherlock season 5*

Anyway. Thank you so much for reading! I know I don't always respond to reviews because I get so busy and then I forget, but I want you all to know that not one review is unappreciated. I value and love every bit of support I've received!  
Stay tuned for the next chapter and thanks again CabbyCat for this prompt!


	24. Black Dog

**Prompt:** Thank you so much, Jensensgirl3, for this prompt!

Dean having trust issues with Sam for all things he has done, can't even trust his brother to have his back on hunts. On a hunt Sam is seriously injured cause of Dean actions, with Sam bleeding out he tells Dean it's what he wanted. Since he can't trust him he should let him go, realizing his mistakes he now have to fix the damage he caused. The hunt is with a Black Dog in the woods.

 **Set:** Preseries! I don't usually do preseries fics, so we'll see how this goes… in this, Sam is 16 and Dean is 20.

* * *

"Can't I stay here?" Sam asked, frowning at his dad. "It's _cold_ out."

John didn't even bother to look up. "Your brother's willing to help me out. It'll be a quick hunt, Sam. We'll be back around dinnertime."

Yeah, right. The last time John had said that, they'd stumbled into the motel room bone-tired at four in the morning, covered in grime and blood. And the time before _that_ , they'd gotten stuck in a hunter's trap out in the middle of Montana. And not a supernatural hunter, no - a regular hunter who had set up a net to catch animals in. Sam, Dean, and John had been pressed together that night, unable to reach their knives to cut themselves loose, and had woken up the next day to some confused hikers trying to get them down.

So, Sam wasn't really ready to trust his father's words. But he wasn't completely stupid, and to skip out on a hunt was to betray John Winchester, so he got his coat on and reluctantly joined his father and brother in the Impala.

Usually he didn't mind hunting. Of course, he'd rather be doing homework and hanging out with friends, but once he was in the middle of the hunt, with his adrenaline pumping and heart racing, it was enjoyable. There was something about the sheer heroism of the job that appealed to Sam.

But as of late, it hadn't been as much fun, because he'd lost Dean's trust. It hadn't been a big deal, at first - he'd screwed up on one or two hunts because he was distracted, thinking about the homework he had to turn in. Then he started to show his unwillingness to leave school for hunts and that's when Dean had gotten a bit cold towards him.

It wasn't until a few weeks ago that Sam had gone too far. Now Dean hardly spoke to him, and it hurt like hell. A few months ago they'd been inseparable brothers; now, they hunted together and nothing more.

It was just another routine salt and burn, like any other. In fact, it would be the easiest hunt in a long time - they knew exactly where the corpse was buried and all it would take was a bit of digging. Nothing that they couldn't handle, especially since the ghost they were getting rid of only attacked girls. Dean and John would be completely safe.

At least, that's what Sam had reasoned. He had PSATs the next day and wanted to get a good night of sleep - after all, test scores were significantly better if the student got plenty of sleep the night before. He'd explained the situation to his brother and father, both of whom had snapped that a ghost was more important that a test that wasn't even a test, it was a damn pre-test.

" _You can't even let me do one thing that's important to me!" Sam shouted. "This is a huge test, because it'll help me know what I'll get on the SATs, so I can start looking at colleges."_

" _Don't be stupid. You can't go to college, Sam, we're hunters. Hunters don't have time to go to college. Maybe someday, when we get rid of all of the freaky in the world, but right now the world needs us. Not some Ivy League school," Dean responded._

" _It's_ one _salt and burn! I always come! Even when I have homework, I never leave you guys on a hunt! But this one's easy, so if you let me stay behind, just this once-"_

" _No."_ _John's voice was cold and firm. "You're coming, and that's final. You're not quitting on your family just because you want to get some extra sleep."_

 _Dean looked at Sam with repulsion. "Sammy, he's right. Don't back out on us because you want some shut-eye. That's not a reason to skip a salt and burn."_

 _Sam was seeing red. "I don't care what either of you say! The second I'm eighteen, I'm leaving this screwed-up family! I'm going to college and you can't stop me!"_

" _Stop acting like a child, Sam. Get in the car, now. We're leaving." John's voice was deadly serious._

" _No." The answer was flat and calm. "I'm not coming."  
_ **"** _Sam, get in the car." This time, it was Dean saying it. "You're acting like a pissy two year old."_

" _I'm not coming. I'm not coming because I'm going to get ready for tomorrow." Sam marched into the bathroom, because it was the only room that had a lock on the door. "I swear, the second I can leave, I'm heading out. You're not going to make me give up my own life to keep searching for the damn demon that killed Mom. Screw you. Screw both of you."_

Okay, so once Sam had reflected on what he had said, it had been a bit too harsh. Not to mention it wasn't entirely true. He wasn't sure if he'd be taking off for college or not, because the family business _was_ important to him, too. He cared about finding the demon that killed their mom.

But ever since he'd said those words, Dean didn't speak to him, let alone trust him. It had been a month since that argument, and even spending an entire night stuck in a net didn't fix what had happened between them. Eye contact itself was difficult - if Sam so much as looked directly into his older brother's eyes, all he saw was scorn.

They'd all three ignored what had been said that night. Sam suspected that John didn't quite believe him, and that was why he'd earned his father's trust back, but Dean hadn't gotten over it. Sam had no intentions of bringing it up, either - Winchesters stowed emotions.

"It's a black dog. Should be easy to take down," John said to them once they were in the car and on their way to the hunt. He paused. "And I want both of you boys focused on this hunt." Unspoken words were understood; they had to keep their crap out of the way when it came to getting a job done.

* * *

Dean couldn't _believe_ the way Sam had been acting lately. Sure, he had teenage hormones and all of that, but for his brother to say "Screw you" and "The second I'm eighteen, I'm leaving this screwed-up family"? That was all kinds of wrong. Acting out was one thing. Ditching family was a whole other.

Dean kept up with his father. Sam was trudging behind them moodily; Dean could hear the shuffling of his feet in the leaves. He bit his tongue, tempted to tell Sam to walk a bit lighter. That kid would get them killed.

Not that long ago, Dean would have said that he wholeheartedly trusted Sam to have his back on a hunt. But now? Now that Sam made his priorities clear? He wasn't sure how focused his brother was on a hunt, and it scared him.

"The dog should come out around dusk," John said, loading his gun. "Within the next twenty minutes we should catch sight of it, as long as it stays in its usual hunting ground."

Dean could feel his muscles tensing with adrenaline. This was always one of the most important times on a hunt; right now, they didn't know where the monster was, and making sure they got the upper hand and weren't ambushed was critical.

He could feel Sam still walking loudly behind him. He didn't bother turning around to say anything, instead sharply waving his hand downward in a "be quiet" motion next to him. Sam continued to shuffle his feet in the leaves. Dean closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. Honestly, someone would think Sam was twelve and not sixteen.

 _Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, shuffle._

Dean whirled around. "Holy shit, Sam, could you be more stupid? The friggin' black dog is going to hear you and then the hunt is blown."

"Well, we don't need three people on this hunt anyway, so maybe I should just go home," Sam snapped.

Dean stopped short and leaned towards his brother. In the past year Sam had shot up in height and now they were equal in stature; something that was a bit disturbing.

"You listen to me," Dean said, jabbing his finger into Sam's chest. "This is a family, not something you can just ditch when you feel like it. I don't give a shit that your PSATs are tomorrow. You can suck it up and help us out, because right now, as far as I'm concerned, you're not even a hunter. You're just a little kid being forced to tag along. So grow the hell up and focus!"

Sam looked hurt, but Dean didn't feel any regret. He wasn't the one that had declared he was planning on walking out on the family.

"Dean, about what I had said-"

Dean stopped in his tracks and turned around again. "Didn't you hear me the first time? I don't care."

John was far ahead of them now, scouting out for the black dog. Dean didn't doubt that John had heard them but chosen to not participate.

He heard Sam walking behind him again, but much more quietly.

Perhaps ten more seconds passed in silence. Only ten seconds, nothing more. The rapid sound of footsteps crunched through the leaves, coming straight towards them from their left. Dean pumped his shotgun and turned around to see the blur of a dog fly by them.

"Dad!" he shouted. "The dog's down here!"

It was the fastest black dog he'd ever encountered. He fired a bullet off but it narrowly missed the dog, instead hitting the tree behind it.

Sam was scuffling behind him to get his gun out and annoyance flared through Dean. Of course he couldn't get his gun out on time; why should Dean expect him to? Sam always skipped training nowadays, and he was out of practice.

John was running towards them and shot at the dog. It hit the canine in his shoulder, but instead of slowing it down, it seemed to only move faster out of anger.

To Dean's surprise, Sam managed to get a shot at the left paw of the monster. It roared, stumbling and limping as it continued to sprint around them.

"It's on you, Sam!" John shouted as the black dog changed direction for Sam. Dean couldn't get a shot off because Sam was behind the black dog from his angle and he'd risk shooting Sam.

Sam was backpedaling, desperately trying to reload his gun but failing as he tripped over his own legs and fell onto his back. Dean screamed a warning, switching his gaze onto his father to see if he was about to fire, but John was trying to reload as well.

Dean ran to the right, aiming his shotgun. The black dog was on top of Sam and it looked almost comical, like Sam was being licked in the face by an over-eager dog. Except the dog was snarling, not licking.

He aimed, his breath coming out of his mouth slowly, and shot. The dog yelped as the bullet tore into its other shoulder and scampered off of Sam, taking off into the woods.

"Get Sam," his dad ordered, before taking off after the black dog.

Dean ran to his brother and fell to his knees. "Sammy!" he gasped, unable to move upon seeing his brother. Sam's face was shredded and his chest was bleeding heavily, pooling underneath him. "God, Sam."

Sam's breath was hitched. "Is it bad?" he whispered, a tear sliding out of his eye.

"You'll...you'll need…" Dean's chest felt like it was seizing. "You'll need a few stitches."

Sam groaned then, but it wasn't just a groan, it was a yell of pain and it made Dean's heart do somersaults. In all of their hunts, Sam had never made that sound. They'd never had an injury… this serious.

"Okay. Okay. Sammy, we've, uh… we've gotta get you to the…" Dean kept trailing off, staring at the ominous blood gushing from the wounds. "Gotta get you to the hospital." He placed his hand gently on Sam's shoulder and lifted his brother's head up to put it in his lap. The feeling of hot, sticky blood under his palms made him gag, and he placed his hand to his mouth to hide the sound. The last thing Sam needed to hear was his brother dry-heaving above him.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Dean," Sam said, freely crying now. He hadn't cried in years. A mixture of dirt, tears, and blood covered Sam's face, but most horrifying was his cheek, which had been ripped open. The skin was dangling like a flap on the side, exposing the muscle underneath.

"I'm gonna pick you up, Sammy. Gotta get to the car," Dean said under his breath. "Oh, God. God, Sam." He gagged again at the sight of his brother's blood.

"I'm sorry," Sam kept repeating.

"It's not your fault, Sam," Dean said firmly.

"No…" Sam's eyes focused onto Dean's. "What I said. Not true. I love you. I don't want you screwed."

"I know, Sammy," Dean said softly. "I'm sorry I was hard on you."

"I deserve this."  
Dean was in the processing of ripping his shirt off to press against the wounds; they wouldn't make it to the car if the huge tear in Sam's chest was open. "What? Why would you say that?" he demanded, tilting his brother's face towards his.

"I messed up. I put school before you and Dad. I didn't even train," Sam said, his voice cracking with a wet choke. "I put you in danger."  
 **"** Bullshit. I said things I shouldn't, too, but that doesn't mean I meant them," Dean said. "Now shut the hell up so that I can help you."

"Dean-"

"I'm gonna take care of you."

He struggled to put the shirt against Sam's shirt. It was slippery with blood, and his heart felt like it was being slowly crushed, because this couldn't be as serious as it looked. "Dad!" Dean yelled, awaiting an answer, but there was none. Their father was far, still trying to take down the black dog on his own. "Dad!" he screamed again, to no prevail.

He started to lift Sam up but his brother clutched his arm. "Dean," he breathed out. "No."

"Gotta get you to the car, Sammy," Dean muttered, trying to arrange his brother into a position that he could lift him up without hurting the shredded skin.

"Dean, I'm not… too much blood. We're a mile from the car. We're not gonna…"

"Shut up! You're gonna make it!" Dean said, tears now falling down his own face. "You're… you're my brother, I can't do this without you…" He cupped Sam's face, feeling the tears and blood on his hands.

"If I die…" Sam's breaths were getting smaller. "Let me go. Don't…" He didn't finish.

"Sam!" Dean felt for his brother's wrist, tears falling harder, and the feeling of a pulse offered only a bit of hope. Sam was still alive.

"I can help."

The new voice made Dean jump. There was a tall man in a tan trench coat standing beside him. His hair was dark and his eyes were a crystal blue, like the ocean itself was swirling in his irises.

Dean couldn't answer. He looked up at the man, tears dripping off of his cheeks. The man seemed to take it as permission to help and bent beside Sam.

Warning bells were firing in Dean's mind. Stranger. Unknown man. He shouldn't trust him. Yet the man seemed to have a warmth; a warmth Dean couldn't describe, one that he'd never felt before. It felt like the sun had been put inside of a man, but it wasn't a hot warmth, either. It was comforting, it was home. It was beautiful.

The man placed his hands on Sam's chest and there was a deep glow. When he removed his hands, for a second Dean was stunned at where the light had come from - there was no flashlight there - and then he saw Sam's chest.

It had mended itself. The blood was still there, heavily dripping off of his shirt, but the skin had healed. So had the rips on Sam's face - the skin was knitted together like it had never been touched.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean whispered. "How did you-?"

"My name is Castiel. We are family."

"My family's dead," was all Dean could think to say. He gazed at the man in wonder. "But how did you-?"

"We know one another in the future. Not yet," the man said vaguely. His voice was very low, at a gravelly pitch. "Someday, Dean, we will be family."  
Dean continued to stare, stunned.

"You won't remember this. You'll remember a witch helping you," the man said, bending down next to Dean. "But one day, I'll tell you that it was really me who helped." He placed a finger to Dean's forehead and the world swirled before his eyes.

* * *

"A witch helped you," John repeated. Dean nodded.

"Sammy was dying. This witch - a young girl with dark hair, wearing a trench coat - she helped him. Said some words, healed him. I can't explain it, Dad," Dean said, spreading his arms. "But she did."

"I'm not complaining," Sam said from the backseat. He was still covered in his own blood but was perfectly lucid and healthy. It unnerved Dean.

John grumbled something about not trusting witches and set his gaze stonily on the road ahead, turning the music on.

Dean caught Sam's eye in the rearview mirror. His brother looked surprised, because they hadn't made eye contact in the mirror in a long time - it was something they used to do as a game when they were younger - and Dean nodded at him.

They'd both said unforgivable things. But somehow they'd been forgiven.

Watching your brother get ripped apart by a black dog before your eyes tended to do that, Dean thought, sending a sly look at his brother in the mirror, and grinning at Sam's surprised, happy expression.

Note: I was anxious to get this out and was too lazy to scan it in-depth for typos. I apologize for any errors!

I'm actually quite pleased with how this chapter came out (an anomaly, as I seem to always hate my own writing nowadays!) so I hope you all enjoyed it! Thanks so much for reading, and again, I'm terrible about responding to reviews but I want you all to know that I appreciate every single one!


	25. Tulpa

A/N: Hey everyone - guess what? I'm not dead. In fact, I'm here with a new chapter! Shocking, isn't it? But honestly, I am so sorry that I was gone for so long. I just needed a break and now I'm going to have a fresh start. I'm glad to be back and I hope you all enjoy this chapter!

Summary: Team Free Will 2.0 goes on a hunt for a witch, and Sam gets thrown into the worst place possible.

Set: Season 13.

I had MAJOR tech issues uploading this chapter so I apologize if anyone had any difficulties with it!

* * *

"Well, this isn't cliche at all," Dean said as they approached the mansion. It was adorned with bricks and lined with hedges. The ivy-lined windows were dark, and few were intact; most were shattered. The mansion dwarfed the other homes in the suburban neighborhood and carried the reputation of "haunted house", since no child would come within twenty feet of it. As such, baseballs and frisbees were scattered across the yard - abandoned toys from children who didn't dare cross into the yard to retrieve them.

"I think this is a bit abnormal, actually," Cas said, squinting at the house. "I don't believe most houses look like this."

"Have you ever seen a movie?" Dean asked. He didn't wait for an answer. "Okay, in and out. Sam and I go in first, and you two," - he pointed at Jack and Cas - "will be behind us in case she uses mojo. And ding dong, the witch will be dead and we can get burgers at Biggerson's."

"Ding dong, the witch will be dead?" Jack repeated. "Is that some sort of song?"

Dean snorted and exchanged a look with Sam. "This weekend we're going to binge some movies. You two need to get out more."

"We're rarely home," Cas said, utmost confusion still in his voice. "In fact, I scarcely go to Heaven anymore-"

"Okay, let's get this done," Sam interrupted, cocking his gun. "One witch-killing bullet should do it."

The witch had been eating tourists that were visiting the town. It had taken some digging to figure out where exactly the vanished tourists had gone until they'd broken into the mansion at night and found human remains in the fridge and oven. Unfortunately, the witch hadn't been home at the time.

"Back door," Dean said, leading the way around the yard and to the cellar door. He dug his lock picks out of his pocket and began to work on the knob. A few tweaks of the pick and the door clicked, swinging open towards the vacant black of the basement. Sam stepped inside, flickering on his flashlight, and Dean followed him in.

"Dean." Cas's voice was short and irritated.

Dean swung around, shining his light back at Jack and Cas, who were both staring in contemplation at the house.

"There's warding. I couldn't feel it until now, but I can't enter. Nor can Jack," Cas said.

"Of course there's warding. Nothing's ever easy," Dean muttered. "Alright. Sam and I will get rid of the witch. Just wait out here."

"Maybe we should erase the warding first. You might need us," Jack said, peering into the basement with trepidation.

"We managed for a long time without angels and nephilims with us," Sam said reasonably. "Don't worry."

"Just sit in the car and put in a tape," Dean said, closing the door before Cas could object.

"I'll head upstairs," Sam said, taking off up the rickety steps.

Dean turned to the other side of the basement, opening up the closet door and brandishing his gun in case the witch decided to ambush him. Absolutely nothing was there except for a few human bones that still had blood and skin dangling off of them.

In the corner was an old wardrobe with more human bones inside. They were an avalanche of rotten flesh when he opened the door, spilling onto the cement floor with a far louder clatter than he would've liked.

"Witches," he muttered to himself, kicking at a bone. It slid across the room and against the back wall, which he hadn't looked at yet.

He turned his flashlight onto the wall, where there were three dozen sigils glimmering in black paint. Well, this would be easier than he thought. He took his knife out of his back pocket and began to scrape the paint off of the wall, slashing through just enough to disable the sigils.

A sudden thump on the floor above him made him freeze.

"Sam?" he called tentatively, waiting for a response. After a moment Sam responded. "Got it!"  
Dean grimaced. "Got it" usually meant that Sam wasn't in immediate danger, but the hesitation meant something was wrong. He began to scrape at the sigils more vigorously. Better to have Cas and Jack join them than to sprint upstairs to Sam's aid.

He was onto his eighth sigil when he realized it looked familiar.

He'd seen that somewhere. And irritatingly enough, he could remember seeing it on a different wall, in a different darkened house… but _where_? He let out a growl, frustrated, and moved onto the next sigil, scratching it out as quickly as possible.

A bullet sounded from above. Shortly after there was another sound, like Sam had tackled something. Or possibly been thrown into something. Either way, it sounded like a dresser had been tipped over.

"Sam!" he yelled, abandoning the sigils and going up the stairs two at a time.

 _The sigil. Mordechai. Ghost Facers._

"Oh, hell," he muttered, turning around and going back down the stairs. Sure enough, he was sure that the familiar sigil was the Tibetan Spirit Sigil.

The thought of their last tulpa hunt was a bit overcrowded by his all-too-vivid memory of the Ghost Facers, but there was no doubt that this was the same sigil. If it was focused on long enough by enough people, the thought could materialize. Last time it had been the legend of Mordechai.

And now… whatever the tulpa was, it was upstairs, throwing Sam around. Dean sprinted back up the stairs, pulling his lighter out of his pocket.

 _Dammit. He didn't have his flamethrower._

"Sam!" he said into the house once he'd ascended the stairs. There was another pause before Sam's answer.

"Dean, it's not a witch!"

"Yeah, figured that out already! It's a damn tulpa!" Dean shouted back, heading towards Sam's voice. The mansion was a sprawling building with multiple floors and tens of rooms, many of which had dumbwaiters and speaking tubes. He kicked down the door to the nearest room, which he could've sworn Sam's voice had come from, but it was empty.  
Another crash sounded from the room next to him.

"Sam!" Dean sprinted to the room, taking out his gun, even if it wasn't a witch.

This time, there wasn't an answer.

* * *

Sam had always taken the upstairs. At least, he usually did, ever since he'd started hunting with Dean. The basements used to scare him when he was younger, and now it was second nature to automatically go upstairs. He entered the silent mansion, carefully entering the drawing room. It was deadly quiet, and had practically no signs that anyone lived there, let alone a witch.

He moved onto the next room. It served almost the exact same purpose as the last room, with nothing but chairs and peeling wallpaper.

This room, however, had a roaring fire in the fireplace. Sam crept forward, his flashlight and gun poised in front of him.

This wasn't like a normal witch, and it unnerved him. Normal witches were in covens, and they weren't hermits. They didn't live alone in massive houses.

Fast, short footsteps behind him made him whirl around, but not before something painfully solid nailed him in his temple. He stumbled, clutching at his head, firing a bullet and missing at the spinning figure that was creeping near him.

It dawned on him that he'd heard Dean call his name, so he managed to shout "Got it!" back before lunging towards the old woman. She was saggy; her body and face were grotesque with wrinkly flaps of skin. Her clothing smelled like pungent body odor and urine and her hair was even worse - visible collections of dandruff sat atop her scalp, and even in his dazed state Sam could see the grease and tangles.

She was wringing her hands, as though washing them, and slowly there were sparks forming in her palms. Sam's head was spinning so quickly that he realized he was staring at her and not moving. He lifted his gun and fired a bullet straight into her forehead.

The moment of relief was followed by disbelief as the witch cackled and wiped the wound with interest. Blood stained her sleeve and immediately dripped down her forehead, but it didn't faze her at all. Sam took a step back in shock, and almost missed the fireball that she threw at him. He dived aside into the end table, which collapsed with a crash underneath him.

"Sam!" Dean's voice echoed from the basement. Sam didn't have time to answer; he was too busy scrambling to his feet and jumping aside as a wave of telekinetic force breezed by him, like an invisible cannonball.

The witch killing bullet didn't work. Even with his temple throbbing in pain, a lump already forming, he could put two and two together. This was no witch. It couldn't be a ghost or demon - they'd already made sure of that the previous day.

Sam snatched up the fire stoker near him and pointed it like a sword at the old hag just as Dean shouted his name again.

"Dean, it's not a witch!" he shouted to his brother. Dean responded something but Sam didn't hear it; the witch was jumping towards him and he thrust the tip of the stoker into her chest. She grinned at him, the irises of her eyes fogged with death. Sam dropped the stoker, which squelched out of her chest and fell onto the carpeted floor, and exchanged it for his gun, even though it had been useless against her.

The witch moved again, moving her hands outward, and this time Sam was too slow to avoid the force flying at him. He felt himself lift into the air, and all that he had time to think was that being thrown never ended well before a collision with the wall and his head cracked him into senselessness.

* * *

It didn't take long for Dean to evaluate the situation. Witch standing with her arms raised and unconscious little brother on the floor meant fast action, so he dove at the woman, throwing her to the floor.

He immediately felt the blood on his hands and drew back slightly at the sight of a bullet wound on her forehead.

" _Hunter_ ," the woman hissed, her hands grappling towards him.

"Bitch," Dean responded, punching her in the nose. Her head snapped back but she remained rigid and conscious. He grabbed his knife from his pocket and hacked at her neck until her head popped off, rolling across the floor.

Satisfied that she was taken out for the time being, Dean went to Sam's side, gently shaking him.

"Dude, nap-time's over. We need to burn this thing down."

Sam's eyes opened. "But it's spinning."

"What? The house is?"  
 **"** Yeah. Ow."

Dean helped Sam into a sitting position. "How bad did she nail you?"

Sam didn't answer. He was rubbing at both temples, eyes screwed shut.

"Sam, how many fingers?" Dean asked, holding up his middle finger for Sam to see. Big brother humor was necessary, even when Sam was hurt. _Especially_ when Sam was hurt.

"What?" Sam blinked his eyes slightly open. "What'd you say?" He kept his hands firmly over his temples.

"Nevermind. It's a tulpa, so we need to get out and burn the house down. Can you stand? Did your legs get hurt?"

"It feels like…" Sam paused, wincing. "My brain was… stabbed."

"Yeah, I know, bro. That's what happens when you let an old woman get the better of you," Dean said. He tugged at Sam's hands. "Let me see."

Sam obliged obediently, and Dean was startled to see a gash on one side of his head, bleeding heavier than he would have thought. Sam's other temple was bruised, and the skin was swollen.

"That's not good," Dean said under his breath, dabbing at the blood. Sam wrenched backwards.

"How 'not good'?" Sam asked slowly, eyes sliding shut.

"Hm? It's fine, just a little patching up from Cas," Dean said quickly. "Here, let's get up and get you outside. Dude. Take my hand."

Sam didn't move.

"You just like me to do everything, don't you?" Dean grumbled, lifting Sam up, but his own head was pounding slightly at the sight of the blood - not out of revulsion, but worry.

"Is it bad?" Sam asked, sounding younger than he had in a long time. "Dean?"

"Not bad, Sammy. Cas will clean you up."

Pause. "Good. It hurts."

"I know, dude," Dean said, carefully helping Sam take a step forward. Slowly, they made their way out of the room, hobbling along together like an old couple.

There was the sudden patter of footsteps, muffled on the carpeting behind him. Dean turned around as quickly as he could with Sam leaning on him, hoping desperately that the tulpa's head hadn't reattached to her body.

And it hadn't. But the headless body was tottering forward towards them, arms outstretched like a decapitated zombie.

This was _exactly_ what Dean hated about hunts - they never ended simply.

"Sam, sit there," Dean directed, moving his brother to the wall. Sam followed without complaint, looking at Dean with confusion in his eyes.

"But how is she still…?"

"Tulpa. We need fire to kill her," Dean reminded Sam, pulling out his knife again. He addressed the tulpa. "Want your limbs dismembered, too, bitch?"

Naturally the tulpa didn't answer, but quicker than Dean expected, she moved her arms towards him. He found himself flying down the hallway and landing in a heap at the other end, a solid thirty feet from the hag.

"Sam, move!" he yelled, but Sam's prone form was in the direct path of the tulpa, who stumbled towards him with her hands searching. Dean jumped to his feet, grabbing his fallen knife from the ground.

"Sam!" he shouted as the tulpa reached him, grabbing for his face violently. Sam was pushing himself backwards, but slowly, as though he didn't have the energy to live. Blood had coated the entire side of his face and was seeping onto his shirt so that he looked half-dead, and Dean's fear leapt into his throat as his tackled the tulpa.

Wielding his knife, he began to take off her hands. Blood spurted all over him; warm and sticky. Her hands fell limply to the floor, and he moved to the feet, rendering the tulpa a lump of a body wiggling on the ground.

"Dean…" Sam looked up at him from the floor. Blood was now pouring out of his nose as well as his temple. "Dean, we need… fire."

"I know. Let's go," Dean said, helping Sam back to his feet. He took a backward glance at the squirming body on the floor, with the hands and feet attempting to get upright and walk towards him. "This tulpa's freaking me out."

They made it out of the mansion with Dean taking backward glances at the disembodied hand attempting to crawl after them.

"Dean, what happened?" Cas demanded as they emerged from the house. "You said that you could manage-"

"Well, we didn't," Dean snapped. "I've got to burn this place down. Can you heal him?"

"Yes," Cas said immediately.

Dean continued to hold Sam upright as Cas gently placed his hands on either side of Sam's head. A blinding light rippled outwards from his palms, and Dean felt the warmth radiate as healing grace knitted Sam's wound and lowered the swell on the other temple. It felt like comfort, home, and family, and strangely he wanted to reach out and touch the grace, to feel its power, but refrained from doing so; this wasn't the time. The light faded and the cool night air replaced the emanating light. Sam, coughing slightly, pulled away from Dean and frowned.

"That was a-"

"Bad concussion. Yeah. Be more careful next time," Dean said roughly, but he slapped Sam on the back as he made his way to the car.

* * *

They stood in a line, the four of them, watching the house burn.

"What's a concussion?" Jack asked finally, breaking the silence.

"A head injury," Sam said. "It's not usually life-threatening."

Dean snorted. "With the amount you've had, I'm surprised it's not. Next time we're not splitting up."

Sam scowled. "Dean, it was one hunt. You need to relax about it."

"Yeah, tell me that next time that you're bleeding from your head and I'm the only person there to save your damn life."

"I could've killed her," Sam countered. "I just needed time to-"

"To sit on the floor and be killed? I'm sure that would've worked well," Dean said irritatedly.

"How about," Jack said, "You always make sure Cas or I am on a hunt with you? That way neither of you will die."

"How about we leave?" Dean offered. "The cops will be here any minute."

They moved to the Impala in unison, Cas hesitating before they opened the doors. "Can I drive?"

Dean raised his eyebrows. "You want to drive?"

"Well, I thought you might be tired, and-"

"Sure." The words left Dean's mouth quicker than even he expected.

"Really?" Cas's face lit up like Dean hadn't seen in a long time, and it made him break into a smile as well. "Yeah. But I get shotgun," he said, moving in front of Sam to the passenger side and smiling to himself as he opened the door.

Hunting without Sam, or Cas, or even Jack, who he hated not long ago, wouldn't be the same.

* * *

Okay, I really overuse corny endings. But ending a short story is hard!

I'm starting fresh with the stories so I might use some old prompts but feel free to send in more. I plan to write more often, so I'll update again soon after Christmas!

Until then, happy holidays!


	26. Ankle

A/N: I never write in Stanford-era but for some strange reason I had the urge to do so. In the show we know that Dean has seen Sam once since he was in college… so what was that time? Anyway, onwards!

* * *

"You'd think we'd get better dorms at friggin' Stanford," Noah said, grabbing a beer out of the cooler. He popped the cap and took a sip, sighing contentedly; it was a hot day in April, near the end of the second semester, and classes were more difficult than they had been the entire year.

Sam was with a few guys that he'd met and quickly become close with. They were in Joe's dorm, sprawled across the two small beds that occupied the room, aimlessly watching the television in the corner. The audio was fuzzy and blurred and the screen had a massive crack across it, but seeing as there was nothing else to do, it was on.

"My dorm's great," Joe countered. "Refurbished last year."

"The year's almost over, dude. You'll be moving soon anyway," Thomas said, sticking his hand out for a beer. Noah peeled the lid of the cooler open and thrust a beer at him.

"Your dorm isn't that bad," Sam said, slapping the bed with his palm. "Your mattress is softer than mine."

"Yeah, but it's the air conditioning that sucks. They run it too long or something and then it gets freezing in here. And the electricity is bad."  
Sam's mind instantly went to the last time he'd been on a hunt with Dean and his father. It had been a ghost, and he remembered it vividly; it was also the hunt that they'd been on when Sam had decided to leave. The expression on John's face was one etched in his mind eternally. He shoved the image back and refocused on the conversation.

"At least you _have_ air conditioning," Thomas was saying. "I literally boil, man. _Boil_."

"And if I were superstitious," Noah continued, "I would say my room is haunted. That's how awful it is."

"What makes you say that?" Sam found himself asking before he could stop himself.

"It's just weird. Creaks at night, you know? And I feel like someone's watching me whenever my eyes are shut."

Joe and Thomas laughed, but Noah just lifted his beer and pointed it at them. "I'm serious. It's not fun."

"Haunted, though? That's just stupid," Joe said, amused.  
 **"** No shit. I said I'd only think that if I were superstitious," Noah said, and grabbed the remote to the television. "Let's get out of here. It's too hot."

"Maybe your supernatural air conditioning will kick on," Thomas said, picking up a frisbee. "Want to go out to the field?"

They agreed simultaneously and left the dorm for the field, but Sam's mind was only on Noah's dorm.

* * *

That night Sam finished his homework near two in the morning, but Noah's words wouldn't leave his head. His roommate wasn't in the room - he was off with his girlfriend somewhere - and the night was deathly quiet. He pulled out his laptop and searched the records for deaths at Stanford.

Instantly a list came up. More names were there than he had anticipated, ranging from staff who had been stabbed to death in their office to students strangled on campus.

Of the thirteen names, only one had died in a dorm.

Hannah Rudson was her name, and she'd only died one year ago. At first, he couldn't understand why he hadn't heard of her death already - students at Stanford didn't exactly stay quiet about anything morbid - and then he read further.

Died of a sudden stroke. Rare for her age, shocked medical officials. It was hushed up because the family wanted privacy. Hannah's body was taken out of the room and she was laid to rest in Palo Alto Cemetery.

He dug further into the records and found her room number, which unsurprisingly matched Noah's room number.

On a usual hunt, it was necessary to investigate where the ghost was, and to talk to victims. As far as Sam knew, Hannah's ghost had been entirely peaceful, so long as watching Noah sleep didn't count.

But the ghosts always became more violent the longer they'd been dead, Sam reminded himself. Hannah might not have killed anyone, but that didn't mean that she wouldn't eventually get vengeful and kill someone.

 _But I've promised myself I'm never going to hunt again._ He was done hunting, he'd told himself that. He hated it.

 _It's only one small case. It's not even dangerous; Hannah hasn't hurt anyone. I could go to the graveyard, dig up her bones, and-_

He shook his head. Was he really risking the life he'd built for himself at Stanford for a few bones of a girl that hadn't even done anything wrong yet? Instead he pulled out his phone and dialed Dean's number, but hovered his finger over the call button. It had been so long since he'd spoken to his family, and he hadn't exactly left on good terms. What would Dean say if he suddenly called and said, "Hey, there are some bones I want you to dig up and burn for me"?

No, he wouldn't do anything at all. Sam closed his laptop with fervor and fell backwards onto his pillow, shutting his eyes. Within moments he'd opened them again and sat up.

Someone could _die_ because he didn't have the nobility to take precautions and burn Hannah's bones. And he already knew that the regret he'd feel would be much worse than whatever could happen going to the cemetery.

He'd have liked to get it done then, but he realized resolutely that he didn't have a shovel. Sam forced himself to lay back down and fall asleep. Tomorrow was a Saturday; he could go out and buy a shovel, then take care of Hannah's bones tomorrow night. It would go smoothly, he told himself, but he didn't fall asleep until five in the morning.

* * *

The sun was hurting his eyes when he woke up. Usually he was up by seven, but this morning he'd slept in until ten, something that hadn't happened in over a year. Not only had he fallen asleep at five, but his sleep had been restless; he'd dreamt of Dean and his father, and of his friends finding him digging up the grave of Hannah. They'd stared and called him a freak before abandoning him in the empty cemetery with a shovel in one hand and a corpse below him.

He rolled out of bed and sipped out of his water bottle beside his bed, stretching. His phone was still on his bed from where he'd set it the night before, and a wave of relief washed over him. Imagining what would have happened had he called Dean last night was at the very least mortifying. Sam left his dorm and made his way to the cafeteria to eat breakfast.

A few hours later, after offering his friends a lame excuse that he had a dental appointment, Sam was in the hardware store, buying a shovel. Once, only five years ago, he'd begged his father to let him do some of the digging. Dean got to shovel, he'd protested. Why couldn't he? His father had answered that they needed to finish the job as quickly as possible, and Sam would be slower. Speed was essential. Otherwise, the ghost they were trying to burn could arrive, or law enforcement might catch them. Never be slow.

Sam finished paying for the shovel and carried it out of the store. He looked furtively back and forth, even though it was highly unlikely that someone he knew would also be at the hardware store, before stowing it in the trunk of his old junkie car. Now, all he'd have to do is dig up the grave, burn the bones, and-

Sam stopped in his tracks. He didn't have salt or lighter fluid.

Damn, this was strange. It felt all wrong, being prepared to hunt at college. It felt even more wrong preparing to hunt but not having every tool he might need at his fingertips, hidden in the back of the Impala.

Just thinking of the Impala brought about a strange feeling of nostalgia. He hadn't thought of the Impala in forever. Sam turned on his heel and went back into the store to get what he was missing, feeling that it was also wrong that his brother wasn't with him.

* * *

Sam fortunately didn't have to come up with a reason for why he couldn't hang out that night, since all of his buddies were going to be out with their girlfriends. Sam wasn't with anyone, which suited him at the moment, because it would've been much harder to get out to the cemetery if he was dating. At least, he imagined it would be. He hadn't ever really dated anyone, since he'd moved around so much as a kid.

The cemetery was a six minute drive from his dorm. He pulled in, turning off his headlights and checking to make sure no one else was around before getting out of his car. He'd brought his old pistol and salt bullets with him as well. Those he hadn't had to buy again; he'd taken them with him when he'd left for college, just in case. Just because he wasn't hunting anymore didn't mean he was ignoring the fact that monsters could be under his bed. He cocked the gun and swung the shovel into his hands.

It didn't take long to find Hannah's grave. She had recently died and was in the far left of the cemetery, which Sam was grateful for, since the far left was obscured by trees and someone on the road wouldn't be able to see him.

Digging took longer than he remembered. Maybe it was because he was alone, and it was much more exhausting. Maybe it was because there wasn't an older brother to talk to.

It was nearing three in the morning when he had finished digging. The night had been quiet, with clouds covering the moonlight, and the darkness stifled the sounds even more.

Hannah's body hadn't entirely deteriorated and it smelled pungent when he broke through the coffin. The flesh was rotten and peeling, but the hair still looked fresh, a combination that made Sam's stomach churn. He poured salt over her body and then lighter fluid. He'd just struck a match, preparing to toss it in and send Hannah's spirit to rest, when a crack behind him made him turn.

That was his first mistake. "Always get rid of the monster first," John had drilled into him since he was young. "No matter what. If Dean's hurt, you kill the monster first. If the cops have arrived, you kill the monster first. Got it?"

Sam should have known better than to turn without tossing the match into the grave first.

His second mistake was to trust the ghost. He turned, face to face with the flickering figure of a girl about his age. It didn't take him more than a second to identify the girl as Hannah. Her face was warm, but she was looking at him in fear, and Sam's first thought was to reason with her before shooting her. Where that idea had come from, he had no idea, and it wasn't one of his brightest decisions.

"Hannah," Sam said carefully, stepping back. "I'm going to help you. I'm just putting you to rest."

Hannah didn't seem to hear, or she was ignoring him. She peered down at her body in the grave and wordlessly thrust her hand out at Sam.

 _Dammit_ , was all he could think in mid-air as the invisible force sent him flying away. The match went out instantly in his hand and he landed in a heap twenty feet away.

Hannah was still standing, looking at her body with disbelief, as though she hadn't realized she was dead. Which, on a second thought, wasn't that far-fetched. Sam got up, pulling the matches out of his pocket. He lit it and threw it down into the grave, just as Hannah released a terrible scream and flung her hands out again. Once more Sam found himself flying backwards, and this time the landing was more painful, although he couldn't have said exactly where it hurt at first.

For a moment he couldn't tell which way was up, until he opened his eyes and felt vague surprise at the dirt in his face. Dazed, he noticed the distant shriek that sounded like a ghost going up in flames. One look confirmed this; Hannah was stumbling around, on fire, before vanishing into sparks.

Sam tried to roll over but immediately cried out as his ankle felt like it had split in two. The world was tilted and spinning lazily. Whether it was because of the dizziness or his ankle, he was suddenly vomiting, his head pounding and his ankle on fire.

 _I screwed up._ A simple hunt. A ghost that had been dead only a year and wasn't even vengeful yet. Yet here Sam was, on the ground, like he'd gone through a fight with several werewolves. Now, all he had to do was muster the energy to get up and drive back to his dorm.

He tried sitting up again and started to dry-heave. The sensation made him more nauseous and wrenched his ankle so that he had to screw his eyes shut against the pain.

There was a headstone beside him. Sam gripped it, pulling himself upward. The world tilted violently and he found himself tipping sideways, reaching out at the air for something to grab as the ground jerked the other way and toppled him sideways. He yelped as his ankle collided with the ground.

He couldn't get up. What a terrible excuse for a hunter he was, he thought dryly, fighting the tunnelling vision that was accompanying the sickening pain. He fumbled for his phone, and with shaking hands dialed 911. But like the night before when he'd dialed Dean's number, he couldn't bring himself to press dial. It took him a moment to think of why.

 _Right. Then I'll be asked why I dug up a grave._

He deleted the numbers and unsteadily typed in Dean's number. This time, he found himself clicking dial, and the phone began to ring.

* * *

Once, when Dean was younger, he would've said that nothing was better than pie. Not beer, not driving, not hunting, not girls.

Now, he wasn't so sure, because the girl kissing him was pretty damn awesome. They were entangled on the bed, making out with a ferocity that Dean didn't know they would've been capable of.

He and his father were on the outskirts of Carson City, Nevada, and had just finished an easy salt and burn. His father was out drinking, and of course turned a blind eye to whatever Dean did nowadays. That's why he was at Lizzy's house, kissing her neck and feeling great.

He almost didn't hear his phone ringing, he was so focused on Lizzy's sweet-smelling skin and soft lips. Reluctantly he pulled away, apologetically kissing her. Once, he'd made the mistake of ignoring his phone. His father had called to ask Dean to pick him up, since the Impala wouldn't start and he was stranded out in the cold. Dean had silenced his phone and hadn't checked the voicemail until two hours later. Needless to say, John had yelled at him for nearly a half an hour straight.

The number on his phone made him do a double-take. It was Sam. Sam, who hadn't called or texted once since he'd been in college. Not even on Christmas.

He answered immediately. "Sammy?"

"Dean." The voice was stiff and short. Maybe it had been more than half a year since he'd seen his brother, but he'd recognize that tone anywhere.

"You hurt?" he asked, standing up and pulling a tee shirt on.

"I'm fine," was Sam's immediate response, even more telling that he was injured. "Just… a little."

"Where are you?" Dean demanded, grabbing his keys. Lizzy was looking at him with a pout on her lips, beckoning him back to bed. Suddenly, she was no longer awesome, and instead just irritating. Dean turned away and repeated the question since Sam was slow to answer.

"Uh… Palo Alto Cemetery."

"What the hell, Sam?! I thought you weren't hunting," Dean snapped, leaving Lizzy's house without offering her an explanation as to where he was going. He had the Impala that night, which he was grateful for, since he'd just filled her with gas yesterday and wouldn't need to stop for awhile.

"I'm not," was Sam's slow response. "Are… can you, uh… can you pick me up? I can't… I mean, I just need a bit of…"

Dean didn't wait for Sam to fumble with the words. "I'm already on my way. I'm four hours out. Can you hold on until then?"

"Yeah?" was the tentative answer. Dean didn't like the inattentive response.

"You hit your head?" he asked, going in reverse out of Lizzy's driveway dangerously quickly.

Sam's voice was in the tone of surprise. "I guess so. Just feeling it now. It's… it's a bit bloody. I think. Must've hit a rock or somethin'."

"You have any friends you can call? Anyone who knows about hunting?" Dean asked, swerving onto the main road.

"No one. They… don't. They don't know."

"Okay. Are you sitting up?"

"Yeah."

"Stay sitting up," Dean said. "Press a shirt or something against your head. You hurt anywhere else?"

"Ankle," Sam said, his voice tight.

"Broken?"

"I don't know."

Dean exhaled slowly. "Four hours, Sammy, and I'll be there. Got it?"

He didn't like the delay of Sam's quiet, "Okay."

* * *

Sam must have fallen asleep, because when he woke up daylight had broken across the dewy grass. At first he thought he had been dreaming the sound of the Impala's engine, until the creaky door slam made him jolt awake.

Dean was there. It had been so long since he'd seen his brother. For a moment his ankle was completely forgotten and a smile broke across his face as Dean came jogging over.

"Dude. What the hell?" Dean said, quickly pulling Sam's shirt away from the back of his head where it had been the whole night. Sam could feel dried, crusty blood flaking away, but also warm stickiness against his scalp as the shirt pulled away. The smell of blood wafted towards him and it nearly made him vomit again.

"Didn't mean to," he said, guilt surging through him. "I'm sorry, Dean, you had to drive out here and-"

"I'm not mad, nerd," Dean said, the banter falling into place so naturally that it was as though they hadn't even been apart for more than half a year. Despite his words, Dean's fingers were incredibly gentle as he moved to Sam's ankle. He whistled.

"I'm pretty sure it's fractured," he said, grazing it with his fingertips. "It's swollen and bruised. You should go to the hospital." It wasn't a demand, though, because he looked to Sam for permission.

Sam's head spun again. "No. Just… wrap it or something. Later I can head to the clinic. No hospital."

Dean's eyes lingered on his face. "You sure? Your head's bleeding heavily."

"I'm sure. Can you…" Sam was almost afraid to ask for another favor, since Dean had driven out for him. "Can you stitch it?"

"Yeah. I got stuff in the car. Want to do it now?"

"Yeah. My dorm might be… occupied," Sam said. Dean helped him to his feet, keeping him steady when he would have fallen over again for dizziness.

"You could've called, you know," Dean said as they made their way to the Impala. "I would've come."

His words didn't make sense in Sam's fogged thoughts. "You _did_ come."

"I mean for the hunt. I'd've come and helped."

"Oh. It was an easy hunt," Sam said, letting Dean help him into the passenger side of the Impala. "Easy spirit."

"And that's why you were stuck at a graveyard for four hours because your head was bleeding and your ankle was fractured?"

"Shut up, jerk," Sam said, but Dean didn't hear; he was at the trunk of the car already, taking out the first aid kit.

"Here," Dean said, offering him a pill for the pain. Sam took it gratefully. "It's going to make you a bit loopy, but you're going to want it. Stitches in the head aren't fun."

And after that, Sam didn't remember much more.

* * *

"Dude, you missed the best party ever. Thomas brought a chocolate fountain. It was sick," Noah told him two days later. "Besides, we were going to set you up with this girl. Her name's Jess."

"Really?" Sam said dryly, his hand subconsciously going to where Dean's stitches were. "Yeah, gotta love family ski trips." That was his excuse. He'd gone skiing in the mountains of Colorado and crashed, and that was why he was on crutches and had stitches on his head. It was definitely not his proudest fib.

"You feeling better?" Noah asked, flopping onto the bed and offering a beer to Sam. Sam shook his head at the beer.

"Yeah, everything's good."

Lying. Something he'd done since he was young, and it seemed like he'd never stop. It made his chest feel hollow.

"That's good."

"Yeah," Sam said, but his mind was elsewhere. Dean had left yesterday after he was sure that Sam would be okay. They'd caught up, and even gone out for lunch together. Sam hadn't expected to _miss_ his brother, because that was ridiculous - he'd left for California specifically so that he wouldn't have to be with his family - but yet he did. It had been the best day he'd had in weeks, even having to be on crutches.

"Don't be a stranger," Dean had said as he left, and the words stuck with Sam. One part of him wanted to stay in touch now, but the other part didn't want to ever have anything to do with their father again.

He hoped it would be better circumstances when he saw his brother again. And maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be too far in the future, either.

* * *

And as we all know, the next time he sees Dean is when good ol' Dad goes missing. This thought actually made me a bit sad while writing this.

Okay, so I'm aware that Sam probably would need a hospital, not to mention that stitches in the head usually require the head to be shaved. There are also probably a ton of other things I'm forgetting to mention about how I'm medically inaccurate, but I write fan fiction for fun and it's really difficult to get all of the facts right (especially since I'm no doctor). I'm sorry if it bothered any of you that it wasn't exactly medically accurate but I hope it was fun to read nonetheless! Thanks so much and I'm so grateful for every review that you all have taken the time to write :) it makes my day!


	27. Stitches

A/N - Angsty-ish chapter. This is set in season 8, before the trials, when Sam and Dean's brother relationship was super rocky because of Purgatory and Amelia.

Also, be warned - it's a bit graphic.

* * *

If, somehow, Sam survived this, Dean was going to murder him.

He wasn't even quite sure if he deserved to survive this, because he'd made so many reckless, stupid decisions. Decisions that he knew better than to make. Decisions that would get him killed.

He and Dean were at each other's necks again over Amelia. Words had been spoken, a punch had been thrown, and now Dean refused to speak to him over anything not pertaining to the hunt they were on. Which, speaking of, was Sam's second stupid decision.

It had been Dean's hunt all along. Dean was the one who had found it and researched for it, and even though they were pissed at one another, Sam could tell that his brother was excited for this one. They were hunting a demon-witch hybrid, which was a recipe for danger. But ever since Purgatory, Dean had been drawn to the more treacherous hunts.

His third decision was probably the most dumb of all, he reflected. He'd chosen to spite Dean and take the hunt on himself, just to annoy his brother. He hadn't expected to get knocked out and dragged to the middle of nowhere.

His head pounded as he tilted his eyes up to the open stars. The night was clear and crisp, with not a cloud in sight. The midnight blue extended outward most of the east, but a slight lighter hue still lit the west where the sun had set. If he were to die, he supposed, this wasn't the most horrible of places. That is, except for the raging bonfire that was crackling thirty feet away from him.

The demon-witch, whose name was Hattie, meandered over to Sam. He clenched his teeth, refusing to make eye contact with her when she bent down to look at him.

Wordlessly Hattie turned around and began to hum as she threw assorted hex bags into the flames. With each bag the fire briefly altered colors before returning to a blinding orange glow. Sam hadn't figured out yet what exactly the hex bags were for, but after seeing the previous victims' charred bones, he could make a pretty good guess that it was nothing good.

Sam's hands were tied around the back of a tree. The bark was smooth, unfortunately; otherwise, he could have used the sharp bits of wood to cut through his bindings. Hattie really knew her knots, he realized, feeling the lump that was an enormous knot tying the bonds together. There was no way that he could wriggle out of it.

Which meant, unless something miraculous cut his hands free, he'd have to pray that Dean would show up.

"Why a witch?" he called out to Hattie to stall. "I mean, a witch possessed by a demon is pretty much a beacon to hunters. You didn't exactly stay under the radar, either."

"A beacon to hunters," Hattie repeated. "Well, you don't seem very dangerous to me." Her eyes flickered black and she smiled softly. "I was a witch when I was human. Witches' vessels are more comforting to use."

"I bet," Sam said dryly. He could see a knife tucked into her belt… if she got close enough to him, then he could headbutt her… but then what? His hands and feet were tied, and he wouldn't be able to grab the knife.

"Last one," Hattie said, pulling a piece of cloth out of her knapsack. "The last hex bag adds a bit of flavor to the flames. That way, when I eat your remains, they taste like seasoned steak." She smacked her lips tastefully, drawing twine out of her bag as well.

"So you brought paprika to put in the hex bag?" Sam asked, keeping his tone as cool as possible.

"No." Hattie drew back a fist and punched him, leaving his ears ringing and his nose dripping with warm blood. "Don't ask stupid questions."

"Okay. So you brought chili pepper, then?" Sam said, feeling more reckless than usual. Hattie's fist connected with his cheekbone, leaving it feeling raw and throbbing.

"It's a spell," Hattie said, drawing her knife. "A spell with three ingredients."

"My teeth, blood, and tears," Sam guessed. He wasn't quite sure where his tact had gone to, but it felt good to irritate her. Maybe it was because Dean wasn't here - someone had to say the stupid, snide comments. This time, she kicked him in the stomach. Sam choked slightly, his eyes watering.

"Close. A bit of your gums, blood from your palm, and skin," she said, prying his jaw open. He twisted his head back, clenching his jaw as tightly as he could, but whether it was because she was a demon or because she was possessing a witch, Hattie was stronger. The night air was cold in his mouth as she forced it open, digging the tip of her knife into his mouth. He felt the blade pierce his upper gums, ripping brusquely through. The familiar metallic taste of blood flooded onto his tongue. Hattie took a tissue and grabbed at the loose tears of gum, pulling them out. Sam grimaced, struggling to not make a sound.

"The mouth is the most fun to torture. You can do so much with it," Sam could hear a voice saying near him, and for the smallest of instants he could have sworn that Lucifer was standing behind Hattie. Then, she moved, and there was nothing.

 _Get a grip. Don't think about that. Don't think about him._

The blood was thick in his mouth. On a sudden whim he spat it out into Hattie's face. She frowned, as though she'd stepped in something nasty, and slapped his face. Sam hardly noticed; he was too focused on Lucifer. The hallucinations he'd had last year had ended, but still… the thought of them returning was more terrifying than Hattie.

He winced as the blade suddenly dug into his palm, behind him. Blood spurted outwards, onto the cloth that Hattie had waiting. She came back from around the tree, setting the bloodied cloth onto the ground carefully.

"Where do you want it, Sam?" Hattie asked, grinning at him. She tapped his shoulder playfully. "What skin should I pull off?"

"None of it?" Sam suggested, tightening his palm as blood pooled into it. His mouth became thick with blood again, but the prospect of spitting it at Hattie was beginning to lose its allure, so instead he spat it onto the ground.

"The neck," she decided, and with one swift swing of the knife she set to work.

It must have taken only twenty seconds, but it felt like thirty minutes. It was shallow, but it burned, and Sam had to bite his tongue so hard that he was sure it was bleeding to keep from crying out.

"There!" Hattie said, dangling a thin flap of skin at least four inches long in front of him. She went back to the hex bag, tucking the skin and gum inside the bloody cloth and tying it into a neat knot.

She never got to throw the last hex bag into the fire, though. Dean emerged from the shadows, his eyes dark and impassive, and with one clean stab he'd put the demon blade straight through her heart. Sam relaxed in relief, spitting blood again.

"Dean!" he said, suddenly exhausted; the burning sting on his palm, neck, and gums was begin to feel overbearing.

Dean didn't say anything at all, but walked directly to the other side of the tree and untied his hands, and then went to his feet and untied those. He moved away, wiping the blade clean on his shirt and dusting his hands off, still silent.

Sam got up unsteadily, clutching at the tree to balance himself when Dean didn't come over to help out.

He'd nearly forgotten about the icy feeling between them. It was colder than any winter day; it was almost as though he and Dean were magnets that repelled one another. He wasn't sure what to say at first, until Dean spoke.

"You hurt?" he asked, his eyes flickering down to Sam's bloodied mouth.

"I'm fine," Sam said automatically, feeling his palm. "This might need stitches-"

"Good," Dean said, turning around. "Take care of that." He began to walk away, not waiting to see if Sam would follow.

"Hey, hang on. Dean," Sam said, grabbing his brother's shoulder. He could feel Dean stiffen beneath his grip and it made him immediately release his brother, putting his hand down uncomfortably. "Look. Thanks for helping me out."

"Yeah."

"No, I mean it. I shouldn't have gone off alone, I shouldn't have taken the case from you-"

Dean whirled around. "You 'mean it'? Bullshit."  
Sam's stomach lurched; the tension that had been rippling between them was exploding in front of his eyes, and he could feel it slamming into his chest. "I… yeah. I'm sorry."

"Oh, so now I know it's fine, because you 'mean it'. Just like how you 'meant it' with everything else. All of these times, Sam, that you've looked me in the eyes and told me one thing, when I know that it's a lie and you're just going to break the trust again."

"This isn't about the case, this is about Amelia, isn't it?" Sam said, standing straighter. If the tension between them was going to erupt, then he wasn't going to stand down.

"Hell, it's about both. When I'm with you, all I feel is anger. That's it. And tonight, I debated not coming to help, because you deserved to finish this hunt on your own, since you're the one that took off to do it alone. Just when I think that maybe we can work through our problems, you take off. You took off for colleges, you took off for Ruby, you took off for Amelia. When are you going to stop the damn running?"

"That's not- this isn't- Dean, I wasn't running-" Sam fumbled for words. Then, clear as the night sky above, was the voice, the voice he dreaded hearing and had hoped to never hear again:

"The mouth was fun to torture. But it was always more fun to torture Big Bro. Making you watch him get hurt, over and over. I miss you, bunk buddy."

Sam dug his thumb into his bloodied palm. It was a motion he hadn't had to do in over a year, and the sudden sting cleared the fog from his mind. "It was stupid, Dean. All of it was stupid. I'm not saying I was in the right. But this? This is me being an asshole and doing the hunt alone because I was pissed at you, alright?"

"That's not good enough." Dean's mouth was twisted with either fury or pain, Sam wasn't sure, and his expression was so stone-stoic that it seemed impossible that he could ever smile. Come to think of it, Sam wasn't sure the last time he'd smiled with his brother.

"What do you want me to say?" Sam shouted, flinging his arms out. "What? I don't know what the hell to say, Dean, because I've already apologized! I shouldn't have come on this damn hunt alone, I get it! Next time, leave me out of this altogether and call up Benny. He'd be a much better hunting buddy if I'm such a crappy one."

"Don't you dare bring Benny into this," Dean said, stabbing his finger at Sam. "You know what? Go back to Amelia. We'd both be happier if you were there."

Sam was speechless for a moment. Hattie's bonfire was still crackling away, casting a dancing shadow on Dean's face but shrouding the other side of him in darkness.

"Dean, you don't know how sorry I've felt. I don't know how to express that to you, either. But you can't tell me this, not now. Not after I've ended things with her. You're pissed that I was with her, and now you're pissed that I'm with you, so what am I supposed to do? Apparently not hunt solo, either, since this is such a big deal!"

"Go to hell, then. Go to hell, Sam, and see if I care, because I'm sick of it, of all of it. Go to hell."

"Yeah, and you know what? You go back to Purgatory, Dean, and see if I care."

Dean lunged at him quicker than he could have expected. Suddenly, the ground was crashing into his back, and Sam found himself staring upwards at the sky and Dean's face. Before he could flip Dean off of him, something rock-hard had slammed into his face, even harder than Hattie's punches from earlier. He didn't have a chance to recover and open his eyes when the force crashed into his face again, and then again, and again.

And then Dean was gone. Sam must've briefly blacked out, because suddenly his brother was striding away, his fists clenched at his side.

"Dean," he managed to say, but Dean didn't even slow down. Sam sat up slowly, blinking blood out of his eyes. There was a shrill, high-pitched buzz in his left ear, and he felt nauseous, like he was going to vomit any second. His head pounded as he stood up, wavering, and he nearly fell back to his feet when the world tilted beneath him like a top.

"Dean," he tried again, but his brother was too far ahead. His neck was burning still, and was sticky with dried blood. Distantly he heard the roar of the Impala's engine.

He was alone.

Sam pressed on, squinting at the streetlight that marked the edge of the forest. Dean had left him. Dean, the one he could count on, was gone.

* * *

When he got back to the motel room, Dean wasn't there, as he'd expected. He wouldn't have even been surprised if Dean's duffel was gone, but it was still on the chair where he'd last seen it.

To his relief, his gums and neck had stopped bleeding, having clotted and become a dull ache on the drive back. His hand, however, was a different story; he'd gone through several paper towels and it was still dripping heavily. The knife had gouged deep and wide, leaving an open, large wound from the edge of his palm to the bottom of his fingers. There was no getting around it; he'd need stitches.

Unfortunately, they'd run out of medical thread on the last hunt, which meant that he'd have to use floss. It wasn't ideal, but he'd used it before and it held up decently. Sam rummaged through his duffel, trying futilely to not get blood on it, before locating the needle and matches. He sterilized the needle, hovering it in the flame for a few moments, before sitting back on the bed.

This was the worst part, sewing the flaps of skin together. Usually, he had two hands to hold together the wound as he sewed, or otherwise Dean would help him. But Dean was nowhere in sight, and unless he wanted to make a trip to the clinic, he was on his own.

He exhaled sharply at the first threading, tugging the skin towards the other flap of skin to hold it together. Blood was pushed out of the wound like a bubbling stream. It dripped onto the white bedsheets, leaving a scarlet kiss on the surface.

Damn. They'd have to book it out of this town or else pay for the bedsheets.

To his dismay, he couldn't get the needle to the other side of his palm with only one hand. The wound was too wide, gushing too much blood, and he couldn't maneuver the needle, which was through one side of the wound, to the other.

"Need help?"

Sam jumped, having not heard Dean enter the room, and grimaced as the jostle made his hand open up.

"Yeah," he admitted, letting the needle dangle from his palm. Dean sat on the bed next to him and picked up the needle, nimbly sewing the wound together within an instant.

"Look," Sam began, clearing his throat. "I want you to know that-"

"Sam. Shut up," Dean said briefly. There was a pause. "We both said some things. Some of it might have been true, some might not have. But I don't want this conversation to end like that. Not with me punching the lights out of you. I'm still pissed, and it'll be a long time from now that I'm not pissed, but that doesn't mean that I want you to go to hell. You're my brother, Sam, and no matter how much we might hate each other at the moment, we're still family. And family goes through shit."  
 **"** I know."

"Yeah."

Not another word was spoken. Dean finished sewing Sam's hand and his hand lingered above Sam's shoulder for the most minute of moments, as though to pat it, but then he must have decided against it because he made his way to the bathroom and shut the door. The sound of the shower turning on filled the motel with white noise.

Sam studied the stitches on his hand. They were made with care, like always, but somehow it seemed different now. Dean had stitched his hand even when he was pissed at him. That had to mean something, right?

He gently prodded the stitch and flopped backwards onto the bed.

Things between them might not ever be the same, he realized, but as long as they still had each others' backs, then he could accept that.


	28. Wraith

BEWARE - SEASON 14 SPOILERS!

A/N: One of my favorite episodes has always been 5x11 "Sam, Interrupted" - the one when Sam and Dean go crazy at the psychiatric hospital and there's a wraith. I was thinking about how they both reacted differently to the wraith and then it got me thinking, how would Sam react towards a wraith in season 14? Anyway, that's where this fic stems from.

This is set in season 14, sometime after Dean locks Michael in his head.

* * *

When did their lives diverge so much from everyone else's? Sam paid for the groceries wearily, digging in his pocket for change. The poor cashier - Courtney was her name - sorted through his handful of coins that he'd given her. Her graying hair was in a simple bun and she was chatting, unfazed by the number of coins Sam had given her, with the bagger. Something about the Superbowl. When had he stopped watching the Superbowl?

The woman behind him was with her daughter. They were picking out a candy bar to eat, and Sam could hear them debating between Reese's peanut butter cups and a dark chocolate Hershey's bar.

In front of him had been an elderly man who had purchased several bags of dog food. He'd proudly shown the cashier a picture of his dog. He had no wedding ring on his finger, and his clothing was tattered and dirty, but he'd pulled out wadded bills to pay for the dog food as though it was the highlight of his day.

In the pastry section of the supermarket, there was a teenage boy and girl holding hands and looking at the cakes together. Whether it was for a birthday or anniversary, Sam had no idea.

By the exits he could hear a woman on her phone, talking aggressively. Her hands were gesticulating wildly with every word that came out of her mouth, and her face was contorted into a combination of hurt and anger.

Sam usually paid other people little attention, but today, for some reason, he couldn't take his mind off of them. When had he and Dean stopped buying cakes? When was the last time he'd argued on the phone with someone? When did he last hold someone's hand, or pick out a candy bar to eat?

When did his life become so _different_?

Maybe it was when his mom had died. Maybe it was when he'd found out the truth - monsters were real, and his dad killed them. Maybe it was when he'd seen Jess burn on the ceiling, or when, a year or so later, he'd found his dad dead on the floor of the hospital. Maybe it was when he'd felt Jake's knife in his back. Or maybe it was when Dean died over a hundred times, every single day, and he'd spent six months on his own before Gabriel righted things. Maybe it was when Dean had died for real and he'd watched his brother get torn apart by that hellhound. Maybe it was when he drank demon blood for the first time, or jumped into Hell with Lucifer, or was soulless, or hallucinating, or when he was ready to die, after the trials.

His hand brushed Courtney the cashier's hand as he took the rest of the change and the warmth of her hand was startling. She smiled at him fondly as he left, telling him to have a good day.

A good day. When was the last good day? Not for a long time. And if he didn't find a way to get Michael out of Dean's head anytime soon, there wouldn't be a good day for another long time.

There was a storm brewing outside, and Sam barely made it into the Impala before thick raindrops began to land on the roof of the car with a tinny echo. He drove back to the bunker distractedly, his thoughts lingering on people that he didn't like thinking about yet couldn't help seeing their faces in his mind. Jess. Ellen. Adam. Jo. Even Ruby, with her dark eyes that he'd come to trust for so long. Kevin. Ash. Adam. Bobby, and not the different-dimension Bobby that they'd rescued, but _their_ Bobby.

 _Focus,_ he told himself. He felt uncomfortably cold, even with the heaters turned up. He hadn't gotten much sleep the past few nights, compulsively searching the wide scope of the Internet for some way to eject Michael from his brother. _They've been dead a long time. Michael's most important right now._

When he got back to the bunker, he was mollified to see that several of the cars were gone in the garage. He'd forgotten that about fifteen of the hunters from the other dimension had planned a hunt out in Wisconsin, and they wouldn't be back for a week at least. It wasn't that he didn't like the new faces - in fact, he'd grown to care about most of them more deeply than he'd anticipated - but the bunker was never quiet when they were around. There was always someone in the library, or someone making food in the kitchen, or someone watching television in the living room.

"Hey," he said to announce his presence, mustering a smile at Dean. "Find anything?"

Dean had been stubborn about wanting to get some air - in other words, kill something - and Sam had relented, despite their priority being Michael.

"Yeah, actually," Dean said, setting his beer down on the table. "Ever hear of a wizard-zombie that uses ghosts to attack people?"

"It sounds like a corny sci-fi movie," Sam said, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah. But apparently several people in Corvallis, Oregon are claiming that they saw a zombie use magic to raise ghosts. It sounds like a kid's story, I know," Dean said, lifting his beer in acknowledgment before taking a sip. "But whatever this thing is, it's dropped three bodies every year since 1965. I say we go check it out."

Sam sat down across from Dean. "I don't know. Oregon's pretty far, and if it turns out to be a bust, it's a long drive for nothing. Besides, we need to find a way to get Michael-"

"Sam," Dean interrupted. "I'm aware. You don't need to remind me every minute. Got it?"

"Sitting on our asses isn't going to do anything at all for us," Sam pressed. "You realize that going on a hunt in Oregon is wasting our time?"

"I knew you'd argue, and I came prepared," Dean said, a slight grin on his face. "There just so happens to be a soothsayer in Corvallis that claims to be able to unify the mind and get rid of any unwanted or negative forces."

Sam exhaled slowly. "Alright. Pack up the car." He wasn't in the mood to argue, and he was beginning to get a headache. Dean got up energetically from his chair to round up their weapons and Sam headed to the kitchen. He still felt cold, and there was pressure behind his ears. He'd sleep on the way to Oregon; undoubtedly that was the cause for his headache. He began to tear open a box of aspirins and poured himself a glass of water.

Sam stilled suddenly as there was sudden movement in the corner of his eye. He could've sworn that there was a shadow there, but when he turned… nothing. He was alone.

He'd been up for too long. In fact, he could barely remember the last time he'd gotten more than five hours of sleep in one night. Last night he'd gotten in one hour before research had compelled him to sit at his laptop, browsing desperately for _something_ that could help Dean.

He popped the pill and left the kitchen, taking one last look behind him where he'd seen movement. There was nothing.

* * *

It took more than an entire day to reach Corvallis. The last time they'd driven across half of the country for one hunt was… a long time ago, he wasn't quite sure when. Dean had, of course, provided loud, abrasive rock music the entire way. They'd stopped at an abandoned motel on the way to save money. It had been a freezing, miserable night, but they'd had worse, and it saved money.

"Take your pick, Sam," Dean said, easing the Impala through the narrow street. "Both are less than sixty a night." He nodded outside, where there were motels adjacent to one another. The first was road-themed, with a cartoon car on the sign, and the second bragged about its low prices, from its motto to the name of the motel.

Sam groaned. "Budget-friendly one is two dollars more."

"Car themed it is," Dean agreed, pulling into the parking lot. He parked the Impala and rested his head back. "That was a hell of a drive."

"I could've driven," Sam said, pulling a wad of cash out from his pocket. "I'll go pay."

The guy at the front desk must have been the boss's kid, because he couldn't have been older than seventeen.

"Hey," he said. "Welcome to the Roadtrip Motel. What can I do for you?"

"Room for two? Two queens?" Sam asked, counting the money.

The guy chewed his gum. "Sure." He opened the register with a clang. The sound had a strange echo to it, as though the room they were in was hollow and stretched on for miles. Sam stiffened, suddenly on edge.

The lights flickered suddenly, and for the briefest of moments, the room was lit with a red glow, and the sound of screams in the distance was audible. Blood was on the desk and instead of putting the money in the register, the guy at the desk was keeled over, his ears ripped from his head and stuffed into his mouth.

Sam gasped, stumbling backwards, and nearly fell over; suddenly, the room righted itself - the lights turned back on, the red glow was gone, and the hum of the vending machine replaced the echoes of screaming.

"Dude?" the guy was asked Sam tentatively. "You having a stroke or something?"

 _For a moment, that was…_ Sam couldn't bring himself to think it. He'd fallen asleep for a moment, that was all.

"Dude. Do I need to get someone?" The guy sounded more irritated than worried.

"No," Sam managed. He grabbed the key from the guy's outstretched hand and pushed the door open to leave the lobby.

 _For a moment, that was the Cage._

* * *

"Which one?" Dean asked, thrusting the door open and wrenching his duffel from the backseat. He glanced at Sam, who was staring into the distance as though dreaming. "Hey. Which one?"

Sam looked over to him as though startled. "Sorry. 106."

"106," Dean repeated, scanning the doors. "We're on the end." He tossed the other duffel at Sam and followed his brother to the door.

The room was painted gray, with yellow streaks across the walls. It took Dean a moment to recognize them as the lines on a road, since they were tilted and uneven in length. There were pictures of old fashioned cars on the walls and the comforters on the beds had trucks on them.

"Well, this is interesting," he said, throwing his bag onto the bed nearer to the door. "Never thought I'd miss these dorky decorations, but it feels good to get out of the bunker." He grinned at Sam. "Plus, there's a strip club in town. Once the hunt is over maybe we can get a little bit of..." He made an obscene gesture, and relished in Sam's disgusted expression.

"You're nasty," Sam commented, as expected, going straight to the desk in the room to find the wifi password.

"Movie tonight, then?" he said, feeling oddly cheerful. It felt like years since it had been him and Sam on the road, killing monsters and staying in cheap motels.

Sam frowned at him. "We should go visit the soothsayer tonight. The sooner, the better."

"It's getting on seven," Dean countered. "We can do that tomorrow. I say we order a pizza and get some r and r."

"I guess," Sam said, but he sounded unconvinced and pulled his laptop out. "I'll start researching this… what did you call it?"

"Wizard-zombie that attacks with ghosts," Dean said, flopping backwards onto the bed. He glanced at Sam, who was already looking intently at his laptop. His face was lit up by the bright screen and he looked strangely pale in the lighting.

Rain began to fall after thirty minutes, true to the typical Oregon climate. Dean ordered a pizza, and when Sam didn't look up to put in his input of vegetable toppings, he asked for loaded with meat.

In the back of his mind he could hear Michael every so often, bellowing with anger, and it made his head throb. It became difficult to ignore after thirty minutes, so he turned on the television and left it on the channel it opened up to, which happened to be Animal Planet.

Sam got up at the sound of the knock on the door, and after checking the peephole to make sure it was the pizza delivery man, he opened the door.

The man was older, at least in his sixties or early seventies.

"Meat loaded pizza for Bowie?" he asked, holding the box outwards expectantly.

Sam didn't take it.

"Yeah, that's ours," Dean supplied, waiting for Sam to grab the box. When he did not, he repeated himself. "It's ours."

"Nick?" Sam said in a low voice. He still did not take the pizza.

"Nick?" Dean swung his legs over the bed. "Well, apparently Nick the pizza delivery guy is here, so take the damn pizza so he's not standing in our doorway all night."

"Look, I have to go…" the pizza delivery man said, but Sam shook his head vigorously.

"No, _Nick_ ," he said emphatically. "What are you… what is he…?"

"My name's Mike," the pizza delivery guy said, bewildered.

Dean could see the blood draining from Sam's face. "Mike? Then why are you calling him Nick?"

"It's not Nick, Dean, it's him!" Sam said abruptly, pulling his gun from his waist. "It's him!"

"Hey!" Dean shouted. "What the hell is going on?"

Mike had dropped the pizza, his hands in the air. "I don't know, man, I'm just delivering your pizza!"

"It's him!" Sam said again, looking to Dean with a plea in his eyes. "He's here, Dean, can't you see him?"

Dean stared at Sam, unblinking. "It's not Nick, Sam. It's not Lucifer, either."

"What?" Sam looked crushed. He turned back to Mike. "Dean, I'm telling you… you've got to believe me! You believe me, don't you?" He looked back to Dean, desperation clear on his face. "It's him, he's here! Dean, I know you believe me - right?"

"Put the gun down," Dean said, moving slowly to his brother. "No one needs to get shot."

Sam reluctantly lowered the gun. Dean grabbed Sam's shoulder and pulled him roughly towards Mike. "That's not Lucifer, Sam."

Mike was trembling where he stood. "Can I… can I just have the money?" he asked timidly, hands still in the air.

Sam drew in a breath. "Oh, my God. I'm so… I'm so, so sorry." He stuck a wavering hand into his back pocket and pulled out a twenty. "Uh, keep the change. I'm so sorry," he said again, pale. Mike grabbed the money, pushed the dropped box of pizza into the motel room with his toe, and slammed the door without a backward glance.

Sam averted his eyes. "God, Dean, I thought… I _saw_ him, I know I did."

Dean took the gun out of Sam's hands and tossed it onto the bed. "I know," he said shortly.

He could feel Sam's eyes on his back. "You're mad?" The words were spoken with trepidation, even fear.

"No. I'm confused," Dean said, throwing his hands into the air. "And you could say that I'm a bit friggin' _worried_ \- what happened? You haven't seen Lucifer since-"

"Since Cas took away the crazy." Sam's ears were red, like he was abashed.

"So, what, is your melon cracked again? Did you decide to take a galavant down memory lane?" Dean realized that he was being a bit harsh and softened his words. "Do you have any idea why?"

Sam shook his head. "I… I don't know. And that terrifies me," he said, rubbing a hand over his face. "Maybe I just need some sleep."

Dean paused. A ready-made excuse, when even he knew that a shortage of sleep wouldn't make Sam's Lucifer hallucinations resurface. "Yeah," he agreed. "Get a good night's rest, Sammy."

* * *

Sam woke up before the sun had risen.

Lucifer's smiling face was stamped in his memory. Holding out the pizza box, a glint in his eyes like he'd poisoned it. At first he'd hoped it was Nick, even when he knew deep down that there was no chance Nick had decided to suddenly become a pizza delivery guy and they just happened to order a pizza from him.

He put on his sneakers and left the motel room quietly after scrawling a note out to Dean should he wake up before he returned. Running always cleared his mind; it made him focus on his breathing instead of whatever nightmare he and Dean were facing at the moment.

As much as he hated to admit it, he found himself looking around every corner expecting to see Lucifer again. But his run, fortunately, was free from Satan, and he returned to the motel with his spirits a bit higher and his legs feeling pleasantly sore.

"Dean?" he said tentatively, entering the motel room, but the lump beneath the blankets didn't stir. Sam glanced at the clock; it wasn't even six in the morning yet. Of course Dean wouldn't be awake. Yet he found himself staring at the lump, which seemed wrong. Something was off, and he couldn't put his finger on it.

Dean's hand was tucked under his pillow like it often was when he slept, ready to grab his gun at a moment's notice. That wasn't any different from usual. Sam could see the tips of his toes under the blanket, which was too short. And then it struck him.

Dean wasn't breathing.

"Dean!" he found himself shouting, and he was at his brother's side in a moment - pulling back the blankets to see that they were wet, sticky, and slick with blood. A horrible metallic smell drifted upwards and Dean flopped over at the movement, his eyes staring at the ceiling with the terrible gaze of death that Sam had seen too many times.

"No!" was the only thing he could think to say, and he was pressing blankets against the bloody wound on Dean's chest - just in case his brother was still alive, he needed to stem the bleeding, he needed to get a doctor, he needed to get him to breathe, he needed to -

"Sam!"

The angry voice was jolting. Sam blinked and in an instant the blood was gone, and he was pressing blankets against a bed-headed, very much alive and awake Dean.

"I, uh…" He could already feel blood rushing to his face. "I thought… there was blood. Dean, I swear, you were just dead, and…" He trailed off, too aware of the folly in his words.

Dean moved cautiously. "Sammy, what's goin' on?" he asked. "Do you need me to-"

Sam backed away. "I've got it under control," he said automatically, running his hands through his hair. "Don't worry, it won't happen again-"

"Yeah? That's what you said years ago, when you were seeing Lucifer everywhere."

"It doesn't matter, anyway," Sam said firmly. "We need to worry about Michael. We can leave for the soothsayer and see if she can find a way to get Michael out of your head."

"Like hell that's what we're doing. First we're finding out what's happening with you," Dean said, getting up and throwing a flannel over his tee shirt. He began to rummage through Sam's duffel, and then under the blankets of the bed.

"What are you doing?" Sam said, mystified. He managed a small laugh. "I'm not on drugs or anything, if that's what you're-"

"No. I'm checking for a hex bag."

"You think this is witchy?" Sam said, joining in and making his way to the bathroom to look.

"Could be. What else? No one goes crazy for no reason."

 _Crazy._ Dean's word choice made Sam's mouth go dry.

But there were no hex bags anywhere, not even in the Impala. Even Dean looked slightly defeated when he came back into the motel room empty-handed. He opened his mouth, probably to offer some sort of encouragement to Sam, when the phone rang, disrupting the tense silence.

"Cas?" Dean said, picking up the phone. Sam couldn't make out what the angel was saying, and Dean's responses were relatively cryptic.

"What? When? Damn it, we just drove here. You'll have to round people up. Hang on - no, sorry - I just… realized something. I'll call you later. Yeah. Bye."

Sam waited for Dean to elaborate after hanging up.

"So, back in Lebanon, there's been a couple of deaths," Dean began, voice laced with the tone of someone who had bad news but didn't want to deliver it. It made Sam shift uncomfortably from where he was sitting on the bed. "Cas says that they died with wounds behind their ears."

"Behind their ears…? Oh, a wraith - why does that… oh," Sam said, his hand subconsciously going to the spot behind his own ears. "Dammit."

"Yeah," Dean said, eyeing Sam warily. "We gotta make sure that thing is killed, because-"

"Because that's probably why I'm seeing things," Sam finished, his chest constricting at the prospect. Last time that he and Dean had been under the influence of a wraith, he'd seen and attacked imaginary people at the psychiatric hospital. It hadn't been one of his proudest moments.

"And bingo was his name-o," someone said in Sam's ear. He jumped, stomach plummeting at the sight of Lucifer.

He could feel Dean watching him.

"Is he there? Lucifer?" Dean asked hesitantly.

"Yeah." Sam had to concentrate to keep his voice controlled and steady. "Yeah, he's… he's here again."

"Sammy, he's not real. Cas is going to ice this wraith bitch and it'll be over," Dean said, looking Sam over with concern. "You good?"

 _No. I hate that you're having to tell me Lucifer isn't standing next to me. I hate that we're wasting time over me when we could be going to the soothsayer._

Instead, he said a quick, "I'm fine," and stood up, ignoring the devil, who approached Dean with raised hands and in one quick motion snapped his neck. Sam turned away, digging his thumb into his hand.

* * *

"We should go back and help out," Dean said, turning on the Impala. Sam shook his head.

"No way. We drove all the way out here, and we're going to that soothsayer. Besides, there's a hunt in town, and we can't just _leave_ ," Sam objected.

At that, Dean raised his index finger. "No. No way in hell. We might - _might_ \- stay and talk to the soothsayer, if Cas has a handle on the wraith situation back home, but no way are you going on a hunt."

"I know what's real, Dean," Sam said, irritated. "I've dealt with this before."

"Yeah, and how many times did it go south last time?" Dean raised his hand as Sam tried to speak. "Look, I'm just saying, we can't take that risk. I'll call some other hunters and let them take care of the monster in this town."

Sam stiffened in his seat. "I'm not psychotic, Dean," he said. He didn't hear Dean's response, because a violent scream jolted into his right ear without any warning. Sam roughly leaned away, clapping a hand over his ear.

"Got you!" the devil said, reveling in his success. "That was hilarious. But do my ears deceive me? 'Not psychotic'?" He shook his head slightly. "My ass, Sam." With that he reached for Sam's throat, squeezing it tighter than humanly possible. Sam lifted his arms immediately, to pull Lucifer off, but panicked at the sensation of chains around his wrists, keeping them down… he couldn't breathe, and the world was swaying in a dizzying array of colors as he fought for breath-

A slap to his cheek and he could draw breath again. Sam lifted a hand to his cheek - relieved to feel that the chains were gone - where Dean had slapped him.

"Sam?"

One glance at Dean told him that his little episode right there had freaked his brother out.

"I'm good," Sam said, out of assurance to himself more than anything, but it didn't help that this time Dean had no words but instead set his jaw and pressed on the gas.

* * *

"We wasted time," Dean snapped as he and Sam left the soothsayer's house. It had been a complete bust; the soothsayer was a fraud who had tried to get Dean to look into a crystal ball to find his inner spirit animal. "We wasted time, and we need to get back to Lebanon before I have to put you in a damn strait jacket and a padded cell."

Sam wasn't sure whether he should embrace Dean's openness with what was happening or not. On one hand, Dean's blunt words were reassuring, because it made it feel less like a secret and more like common knowledge. On the other hand, Lucifer seemed to be delighting in Dean's words, and enjoyed repeating the words in Sam's face.

"Padded cell? Strait jacket? That sounds right up your alley," he remarked. "You know, Dean doesn't seem afraid to address this whole _crazy_ thing of yours. He doesn't seem very surprised by it, either. You're always burdening him with your psychotic issues. Even when he needs _your_ help, you're the pathetic damsel in distress."

To which Sam would ignore him and focus on Dean, who was likely talking away to get rid of any uncomfortable silences.

They were on the road back to Lebanon, but it would at least be another day before they got back there. Dean was frequently on the phone with Cas, who was spending every waking moment attempting to discover who the wraith was. Unfortunately, most of the other hunters in the bunker were still on their hunt in Wisconsin, and Cas wasn't exactly a natural at hunting. He was a great warrior and fighter, for sure, but when it came to research and identifying monsters, he came up a bit short.

"You talked to the vics' families?" Dean was practically growling into the phone. "All of them? Come on, they must have some sort of connection, Cas-"

Sam felt bad for Cas, who was clearly trying his hardest but had yet to find out what the connection was.

* * *

The hallucinations were surprisingly minimal through most of Montana. Predictably, Dean refused to let Sam drive - "I'm not letting you crash Baby because Lucifer decides to put a deer in the highway" - so they spent most of the ride with Dean knuckling the wheel and speeding much more than Sam would've liked.

"Sam. Sam. Sam, look at Dean," Lucifer was saying at the moment, nudging Sam's shoulder. "Saaaam."

Sam blatantly stared straight ahead, refusing to give Lucifer the pleasure of making him flinch.

"Sam!" This time, it was Dean saying his name, and before he could stop himself, Sam glanced over at his brother. Dean's face was deprived of skin, and only pulsing veins, pearly bones, and muscle remained. His eyeballs were half fallen out, dangling by a few thin ligaments, and sinew hung from where his skin should have been.

"Stop it!" Sam shouted, before he could stop himself, and the car swerved suddenly.

"What the hell!" Dean said, straightening the car out. "Give me some warning next time, okay?"

Sam chanced a glance at Dean, who mercifully had skin again.

"We did that in the Cage, remember?" Lucifer said. "I took a toothpick and we slowly ripped every bit of flesh from your face. That was painstaking, but slow. I like to think of myself as an artist. I take my time and in the end the results are stunning."

Sam wasn't even sure anymore what Lucifer was going on about. The devil had been chatting constantly, with the occasional scare to get him to react.

The phone rang again for what felt like the fifteenth time that day; Dean picked it up and didn't hesitate to demand from Cas if he'd found the wraith yet.

"He's freaking me out, Cas," Dean said, and Sam felt his insides curl up inside of him at the words. After all he'd been through and healed from, and now he was just the freaky little brother again. He looked out the window as though to not hear.

"Yeah, hurry up. I mean, he's talking to no one every minute and acting insane. Honestly, I don't know how I got through that year when his eggs were scrambled."

Cas said something on the other end; Sam couldn't hear what, but his voice was resolute.

"I know. He's so freakin' self-absorbed. I have _Michael_ in my head and he's screwing us all over by getting mixed up with a wraith!"

 _Not real. Obviously not real. Dean would never say that._

"How do you know?" Lucifer said from behind Sam. "Maybe he'd say that when you're not in the room."

"He wouldn't," Sam insisted. "I know he wouldn't."

"Aw, look. Big brother's worried. He doesn't like seeing Sammy talking to no one," Lucifer pointed out, and vanished. Sure enough, when Sam glanced at Dean, the latter was looking at him with concern again.

"We're a couple hours out, Cas, and then I can help out," Dean said.

They pulled up to a gas station as Dean was still talking to Cas. Sam didn't waste any time in getting out of the car for some air, and started to leave for the restrooms on the side of the gas station.

"Hey. Sam. Maybe you shouldn't…" Dean began, stopping Sam.

"What? Do I need a babysitter?" Sam asked, even though he was perfectly aware of the fact that Dean was probably right.

"No, but you're being roofied by a wraith and I don't trust wraith juice," Dean said. "Wait until I get the gas."

Sam snorted. "You realize that our lives are messed up when your brother tells you that you've been roofied with wraith juice. Dean, I can go to the bathroom. It's okay right now."

It actually was clear at the moment; Lucifer was nowhere to be seen.

Dean hesitated. "If you take longer than three minutes, I'm busting down the door. And I'll be right here, getting gas, so if you need anything-"

"I'll shout for you," Sam said dryly. "Thanks, Dean."

He turned and made his way into the bathroom of the gas station. It was relatively clean as far as gas station restrooms go, except that the walls were covered in graffiti and the toilet was a cold metal pit like the ones in outhouses. He quickly relieved himself and had just started washing his hands when the lights flickered and a figure flickered behind him.

 _Shit. Real or not?_

The ghost manifested fully, and Sam's heart did a flip in his chest. Jess was standing there, in the outfit she'd died in, her blonde hair bouncing off her shoulders and falling gracefully down her back. She looked at Sam sadly.

 _Real or not?_

 _Do I care if this is real? It's Jess._

She looked exactly how he remembered her. He found himself walking towards her, his hand outstretched for hers, and she took it.

"Sam," she said. Her eyes were soft and gentle. "Sam, you're in danger."

"Why are you here?" The words felt like cotton swabs in his mouth. "Why are you… in this gas station?"

"I'm here because you're here, Sam," Jess said simply. "Your mind put me here. That wraith is bringing up things from your past. You must have noticed that."

 _Hallucinations of Lucifer. Dean, shredded, bloody, and dead. Jess._

"Things you fear," she continued. "You're afraid of what's happened in the past. You're still afraid of me, Sam? Fourteen years later?"

"I'm… not," he said. She grabbed his wrist and brought her lips to his. They were cold and unyielding, stiff and dry, and he wanted to pull away but at the same time the desire to pull her closer made him stay where he was.

Jess pulled back, caressing his face. "You moron," she said, the words uncharacteristic in her mouth. "You know I'm not real. Why are you still near me?" She pulled out a knife and quicker than lightning she cut deeply near his collarbone.

Sam didn't move. Blood trickled out of the cut immediately.

"What? Is your own messed up head scaring you?" Jess asked, and then she morphed into Ruby. "Would you rather I cut myself?"

Ruby cut her own arm open and lifted the blood to Sam. "Go on. One more time. I know you want to, Sam. It's okay, I'm a figment of your imagination. Nothing will happen if you have a taste."

Sam pressed himself against the sink. "No."

"Maybe you could save Dean somehow. Embrace your powers, Sam! There could be a way to save Dean if you do!" Ruby thrust her arm in front of Sam's mouth.

"Just because you're not real doesn't mean that I'll fall for that," Sam said, gritting his teeth. "Get away from me."

Dean was pounding on the bathroom door, Sam could hear him. He couldn't remember why he'd locked it. Habit, probably. He edged towards it, but Ruby blocked his way, and suddenly she wasn't Ruby, she was Adam.

"You think you can just leave? It doesn't matter if I'm in your head, I can still make you feel pain," Adam said, his face impassive. "I didn't get to leave. I'm still in the Cage. Why should you get to leave?" He took the same knife that Jess and Ruby had and grabbed Sam's hand.

"Don't touch me!" Sam said, wrenching his hand away, but the Adam his brain had conjured was much stronger. He took the tip of the knife and dragged it across Sam's palm.

"Feel that? I'm not even real and I can make you feel pain. If I come back, I'll make you feel so much pain that you scream until your throat tears."

Sam grabbed the blade with his hand and tore it away from Adam. He could feel his skin slicing open with the grip, but it didn't matter, because it wasn't real, was it? He moved towards the door.

"Get out of my way," he ordered. "Or I'll kill you."

"You wouldn't," Adam said, raising his eyebrows. "I'm your brother, real or not."

"Now. I'm warning you."

Adam didn't move. Sam raised the knife and then he vanished, suddenly, without any warning. He unlocked the door, falling to his knees and feeling blood on his face as he pressed his hands to his temples.

"Sammy, it's okay."

Dean's arms were around him. His eyes were burning and at first he held them back, fighting the hot, raw lump in his throat, but then he let the tears fall. Dean held him tightly, letting him stay there on the floor of the gas station, face wet with blood and tears.

"Cas killed the wraith," Dean said quietly after a moment. "He said it was the grocery store clerk. Courtney, her name was."

Sam remembered her. She'd brushed his hand when he paid for the food the other day.

"Is he gone?" Dean asked. He assumed it was just Lucifer. For the tiniest of moments, Sam met his eyes and he almost told him. The words were on the tip of his tongue - opening up to his brother, something he hadn't done since he was twelve - but then he swallowed the urge.

"He's gone."

"You cut yourself," Dean said, his hand grazing Sam's. "I'll have to stitch that. Your shoulder, too."

Sam lifted a hand to near his collarbone, where Jess had cut him. There was blood. That had been real.

 _Was the whole thing real?_

 _No, it couldn't have been. I did it myself._

He dried his eyes hastily and stood up, wiping his bloody hand on his jeans. Dean stood with him, keeping a hand on his shoulder. There was silence.

"You good?" Dean asked eventually.

"Yeah. I'm good." Sam moved to leave the bathroom, because he couldn't stand looking inside there any longer, where he'd finally seen Jess and yet her kiss was colder than his insides now felt.

"Friggin' hate wraiths," Dean muttered, picking up the knife from the floor. "Courtney was a bitch."

Sam mustered a smile. "Thanks."

"I didn't kill anything."

Sam stopped short. "Whatever happens with Michael, you know that I'd die for you in a heartbeat, right?"

Dean frowned. "What makes you say that?"

"I just…" Sam met his brother's eyes. "If it comes to it, I would lay down my life for you. And I don't want you to tell me not to, or try to stop me, because I don't want to live knowing that I didn't do everything in my power to save you."

"Whoa, slow down, Socrates," Dean said, raising his hands. "No one's dying anytime soon. Not you, not me."

"I'm just saying," Sam said, a bit more forcefully than he intended. "Whatever happens, I'm not living my life in regret. I'm going to save you." He repeated it for emphasis. "I'm going to save you, Dean, and if I die in the process, then that's what's going to happen."

Dean's eyes darkened. "Neither of us are going to die. Nor is Cas, or Jack. _No one,_ and especially not for me." He paused and Sam saw him clench his hands. "We'll get through this, there _will_ be a way out. I know there will be."

Yet unease followed Sam to the car, the same unease that had just vanished of determining what was real and what wasn't. _Is he convincing me or himself?_

A/N: I guess this was my lame excuse of a season 14 reflection. The chapter really got away from me and a lot of that was improvisation, so I'm sorry if it seemed like a very random chapter.

Thanks so much for reading, though! I want you all to know that every time I get a review, it actually is so exciting and they certainly don't go unnoticed (even if I forget to respond to you). Every single gesture of support means SO MUCH and it's what keeps me writing. Thank you, every single one of you, for reading this far, because I'm so honored to have almost a hundred follows on this story. Really. You are all awesome, and I can't thank you enough.


	29. Friendly Fire

A/N: Thank you to sandybeliever for giving me this prompt!

 _You know how many times they say, "I almost shot you!" So what if Dean actually does shoot Sam accidentally._

I love this idea so much!

This is set in the second half of season 9, sometime after Dean gets the Mark of Cain.

By the way, I try to keep things accurate from a medical standpoint, but sometimes it's hard to find answers to the nitty-gritty details on the Internet, and I get a bit creative with what I envision would happen. Forgive me for any inaccuracies!

* * *

Dean was on edge.

He and Sam were on a hunt, and from the very beginning it was pissing him off.

For one, he didn't even know what they were hunting. Based on the locals' descriptions, it was a hybrid between a raccoon, a zombie, and a kraken. Since they didn't know what the monster was, that meant that they had to go prepared into the hunt - complete with silver, copper, lamb's blood, stakes, guns, salt, holy water, and an assortment of other weapons that weren't exactly light in Dean's backpack.

That's where the second part came in. He had been lugging his backpack around the Washington woods, and neither he nor Sam had any idea of where to look for the monster. They were in its hunting grounds - where the vics had been found with their tongues and eyeballs ripped out. But the woods of a small town Washington had a vast vicinity, and wandering around looking for the monster hybrid wasn't proving to be effective.

But Sam was the main reason that Dean's teeth were on edge. They'd had a fight last night over the First Blade again; Dean thought they should take it along on the hunt, and Sam was deeply opposed.

Dean ground his teeth as the sun disappeared over the edge of the trees. "It's not coming, Sam. Let's head back." He was suddenly craving a cold beer and the last thing he wanted was to spend another half an hour trekking through the woods with Sam. They hadn't had any friendly conversation at all since the fight yesterday and the tension was making his skin crawl.

"I think we should wait it out a bit longer," Sam said. Of course he would disagree.

"None of the vics died at night. There's no reason to be here once the sun is down," Dean pointed out. "We're wasting our time."

"There've been three victims. Two died in the morning and one in the afternoon. That's hardly a pattern," Sam said in the type of voice that irritated Dean the most. "For all we know, the next vic could die at night."

They entered a thicket of smaller, denser trees. The ground began to get mucky and Dean had to pull his feet up with more difficulty so that they wouldn't get stuck in the mud.

 _This is just friggin' awesome._

He purposely held the branch that he was walking by, and then let it swing wildly back at Sam. There was the satisfying sound of the wood making contact with Sam's face. There was silence for a moment, which caught Dean off guard; he'd expected the branch to ease the tension and for Sam to snort at him. Instead, Sam's response was biting and sharp.

"Just because you don't want to be out here doesn't mean you need to be an ass," Sam said. "If this is about the First Blade-"

Dean's temper flared the moment that Sam brought up the blade. "Take a joke, will you? And it wasn't about the damn blade."  
He probably shouldn't have answered Sam. Only then he realized Sam was on edge too, and two Winchesters who were at each others' necks already, and pissed on a hunt, was not a recipe for a fun night.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Everything's been about the 'damn blade' lately, so I've gotten a bit used to dealing with you pining for it," Sam retorted.

Dean spun around, incredulous. "I don't _pine_ for it. I'm the one who is thinking straight and wants to bring an invincible knife on a hunt! If you'd get your head out of your ass you'd see that!"

"We managed fine without the First Blade," Sam said, his words more taut than a bowstring.

"Funny," Dean said, turning around to walk ahead. "I remember you saying the same thing when you were _pining_ for demon blood a few years ago."

He could hear Sam stop dead in his tracks, but he kept walking. Let him think about that one for a bit, he thought, more pissed than ever.

"That's different," Sam finally said from behind him.

Dean turned around again. "Yeah? Explain that to me."  
Sam jabbed a finger into his own chest. "All _I_ wanted was to help. I thought the demon blood would help us - that's why I did it. You're just a junkie for killing. I've seen you. I see the look in your eyes when you have the blade. You're just jonesing for your next kill."

Heat rose to Dean's neck. "Leave."

Sam didn't hesitate to respond. "No."

Dean stepped forward. "Sam, before I say something I'll regret, get out of my sight. I'm finishing this hunt on my own."

"Even you're not that stupid. That's not a good idea," Sam said.

"I'm telling you now, last chance. Get lost. I'm doing this alone, and the last thing I want is you at my side right now."

Sam's eyes surveyed him for a moment and it made Dean want to punch him.

"Fine," Sam said coolly, and he turned on his heel and left.

 _That was easier than I expected._

Suddenly he had no desire to return to the motel room. He'd stay out in these woods the whole night, if it meant killing the monster. Anything was better than being in close quarters with Sam.

* * *

Sam made his way back to the Impala more calmly than even he expected. Dean didn't want to hunt with him? Fine, it wouldn't be the first time. The walk to the car took longer than he'd anticipated; they'd been out walking around the woods for a few hours and had strayed farther than he previously thought. It was nearly two miles to get back and he reached the car only to realize that he didn't have the keys, and was locked out.

 _Well, this is the cherry on top of a_ spectacular _hunt_.

Sam wrenched his backpack off of his shoulders and sat resolutely against the car. He unzipped the bag and pulled out the First Blade, looking at it stonily, before sliding it back into his bag.

Dean didn't know that the First Blade was with them. As much as he hated to admit it, Dean was right, and since they didn't know what the monster they were hunting was, then the blade would come in handy. But there was no way that Sam was going to let Dean bring the blade, nor was he about to let his brother know that it was with them. He'd put it into the depths of his backpack as a last resort.

 _Crack._

Sam froze. Something on the other side of the car had snapped a branch, and not just a squirrel stepping on a twig. Whatever it was, it weighed more than he did.

He pulled out his gun, which was loaded with iron bullets. He hoped to hell that whatever this monster was, it didn't like iron, or bullets at all for that matter. Sam crept to the side of the car and very slowly peered around the edge.

The strangest monster he'd ever seen was snuffling along the trees on the other side of the Impala. Its body was of a human's, it had stitches all along its pale flesh, and it moved slowly and clumsily - instantly Sam could see where the zombie part of the monster came from. It didn't have hands, though, it had raccoon paws, as well as a tail and the mask-like fur of a raccoon on its humanoid head.

Oddest of all was the tentacles flailing about the monster's waist. They were groping along the bark of the trees, as though sniffing for something.

Sam lunged out and fired at the neck and head of the monster. It roared, its tentacles stiffening and straightening as though electrocuted, and then it whipped its head around to Sam. He hesitated, holding out his gun.

 _Please die._

Instead, the monster began to lope towards Sam, and it was only then that Sam realized it wasn't even bleeding from the wound.

 _Shit._

He dug his knife out of his pocket and dove aside at the last moment; the monster went barreling past him and made a wide turn to correct its path. Slow and stupid, then. Sam poised himself, letting the monster come even closer to him this time before jumping aside. This time, he pursued, and leapt behind the monster. Its body was thin and bony, but the tentacles were fat and slick, and Sam had to stay well back to avoid them reaching for his neck. He pulled out his gun again and fired a shot at each tentacle. They twitched, falling to the side of the monster. Sam took his chance and thrust his knife into the back of the monster.

This time, blood came out. Sam stepped back, satisfied that the thing was killed by the silver in his knife.

The monster stumbled around, facing Sam, its deep black eyes finding his own as though personally offended that he'd been stabbed. The strange raccoon-human face stared at him for a solid ten seconds before it fell, dead, onto the dirt below.

Sam took the knife out of the back of the monster and wiped it on his shirt.

 _At least I got the kill. That'll piss Dean off even more._ Childish, probably, Sam reflected - the fact that he took pleasure in irritating his brother even in his thirties - but pleasing all the same. He even considered walking back to the motel, leaving Dean to realize that the hunt was over and the monster was dead, but it was getting dark and nighttime in Washington wasn't particularly warm. As much as he hated the thought of it, he'd have to let Dean know he killed the monster.

 _Imagine if Dad could see us now._

Number one rule was to never split on a hunt. Sam smiled in spite of himself; here he was, years later, stabbing a weird mutt of a monster while Dean was off somewhere else brooding.

He left his backpack at the car, taking only the knife and gun with him, before leaving to find Dean.

* * *

The sky was darkening rapidly since the sun had set. Dean had given up searching for the monster and had opted for letting it find him; that was why he was now sitting on a riverbank, holding his gun and watching the colors of the sky become fused with more navy blue with every minute.

A small part of him knew Sam was right to keep the First Blade away. They _didn't_ need it, and even Dean was aware that it was fueling the animalistic desire inside of him to kill something. It even scared the shit out of him, but more pressing was his desire to hold the blade again, to feel its power.

He made sure his gun was loaded, should the monster hybrid show up.

Once upon a time, hunting alone would've unnerved him. He used to hate the feeling of having his back unwatched, and despised knowing that if he were to get hurt, there would be no one to help. That feeling was what had first made him go to Stanford and convince Sam to help him search for his dad. He hadn't been able to stand being alone.

He wasn't sure when that had changed. Maybe it was when he'd spent many bloodsoaked nights alone in Purgatory, his ears and eyes constantly open for any sound at all that might be a monster. Even recognizing the slightest crack of a branch meant life or death, because a second's delay and-

 _Crack_.

Without thinking, without looking, without delaying, Dean had whirled around and fired. The satisfying sound of the bullet connecting with skin was audible, but then, the sound that always, for as long as he could remember, made his heart jump out of his skin followed - Sam crying out in pain.

"Sam?" he ventured immediately, getting to his feet and hurrying towards where he'd shot.

 _Shit, shit, please let me have hit something other than-_

Sam. His stupid, pissy, annoying as hell little brother, who moments ago Dean wanted to sock in the face, was on his knees in the leaves, looking at Dean with faint surprise.

"You shot me," he said, and Dean might have snorted at the shock in his voice had there not been a small bloodstain on his side.

"Oh, my God," was all Dean could think to say as he wrapped one arm around Sam without hesitating and braced the other hand against the wound. It was already getting wetter with blood.

"My fault," Sam said, groaning as Dean's hand pressed against the wound. "I should've… made a sound or something. Ow."

"Sammy, this sure as hell _isn't_ your fault," Dean said aggressively, lifting up Sam's shirt. He sighed with relief. "It's on the very far left. Almost a graze, but the bullet's wedged in there. Can you walk?"

"Yeah," Sam said, his voice thick like it always was when he was injured and tried to not show it. "My legs are fine, aren't they?" He laughed slightly as Dean helped him up, but it turned to a wince as he moved. "Damn."

They began to slowly walk back to the car, Sam leaning almost entirely on Dean, who was keeping a tight grip on his brother should he stumble and hurt himself further.

"I killed the monster," Sam said dully as they left the riverside. "Silver killed it."

"I missed all the action?" Dean said, ignoring the pang of regret that the opportunity to kill had slipped through his fingers.

 _Damn the Mark of Cain._

They continued over the hill, Sam clutching at his side like it was a lifeline and gripping Dean so tightly that his shoulder was beginning to ache.

"Look, man," Sam began suddenly, and Dean's stomach plummeted at the tone that clearly indicated he was about to address their fight earlier.

"Shut up," Dean said simply. Sam looked taken aback. "I get the sentiment," Dean continued, "but it's not your place to tell me whether I can take the blade or not. I'm an adult, Sam, and you can't control me. But that doesn't mean what I said was right."

"Hold on," Sam interrupted. "I'm your _brother_. Just because I'm younger doesn't mean I don't have a say for what happens to you." He looked at Dean almost desperately. "We're family, and pretty much the last family we have. I don't want anything to happen to you."

"Will you let me finish?" Dean said, rougher than he intended. He felt Sam stiffen slightly. "Dammit. I know why you don't want me taking the blade. Believe me, I know. And I'm sorry for what we said. The thing is, even if we disagree on it, I don't want it to come between us. We've been through hell together and I don't want things to go to shit because of this one blade. Capiche?"

"Capiche," Sam repeated. "But you owe me one."  
 **"** Yeah? What?"

"I'll think about it. But it's gotta be pretty awesome, since you just shot me." Sam tripped over a root without warning and Dean tightened his grip on his brother to ensure that he didn't fall.

"You got it," Dean said, guilt closing in his throat like a chokehold.

* * *

They made it back to the bunker with Sam still conscious, despite the blood that he'd lost and the obvious pain that he was in.

"This is going to hurt like a bitch," Dean warned Sam once they were on the bed. "Here. It's the good stuff." He held out a large pill, the kind that they used only when necessary.

Sam took it without question, draining his glass of water with the pill.

"Ready?" Dean didn't wait for an answer and poured alcohol over the wound. He could see Sam's fist clenching at the blankets but not one sound escaped his lips.

The bullet was mercifully easy to get at. Sam refused to go to the hospital, so Dean was left to use their pair of old forceps that they kept in the trunk. Had the bullet been any farther to the left, Dean wouldn't have dared take it out on his own, but it was lodged near the surface of the skin. He slowly maneuvered the forceps to pluck the bullet out of the wound and slide it out as cleanly as possible.

"There," he said, dropping the bullet onto the floor once it was out. He prodded at the wound slightly; it was bleeding still and Sam was looking paler by the minute.

"I have to clean it again before stitching," he told Sam, who seemed a bit unreactive at this point, his eyes shut and jaw clenched. He took the alcohol again to rinse out the wound before finding their stitching materials.

By the time he'd returned with the kit, Sam was looking dazedly at the ceiling. He heard Dean's footsteps and smiled at him dopily; that was the signal that the pill was doing its job, because the last time Sam had genuinely smiled like that seemed to be years ago.

"Thanks, Dean," Sam said sincerely as Dean set to work with the stitches. "It means a - ow - lot that you do this."

"Well, I'm not going to let you bleed out," Dean said simply, carefully sticking the needle through one side of the wound. He pressed a towel against it again to get some of the clotting blood out of the way.

"Why do you do it?" Sam asked, looking directly at Dean with doleful eyes.

"Do what?" Dean looked down, uncomfortable in the path of Sam's sorrowful expression.

" _This_. I mean, we fight, and say horrible things to one another, but the instant that something worse happens, it's like…" Sam shook his head. "You could've just… I don't know… been professional about it and helped me out. But… you're always… Dean, you're always the big brother when stuff like this happens. Why?"

Dean was taken aback by the question. "Like you said, we're family. Family takes care of one another even after fighting."

"But we're not an ordinary family," Sam pressed. "Our fights are practically wars."

Dean sighed. "I don't know, Sam." He stitched up the bottom half of the bullet wound. "Sometimes I feel like I'm doing it because it's my duty. Those are the bad days, you know? Going through all of the same motions that I used to do because it feels wrong to do anything otherwise."

"Is that all the time now?" Sam was giving him such a melancholic expression that Dean had to still keep his gaze away.

"Not all the time," Dean said. "I guess I do this for the good days. Because when we have good days, I remember what we're fighting for in the end."

"What're we fighting for?" Sam said, his forehead scrunched as though trying to remember something.

"Each other? I don't know. You're making this into a damn princess fairytale, Sammy. There isn't really an answer except for that the good days are why I'm still here." He glanced down at the Mark of Cain, which seemed to get hotter as he was speaking. He fought the desire to scratch it.

"You shot me," Sam said again. "I can't believe you shot me."

"And I'm stitching you up," Dean said, tying the last knot.

"Our lives are screwed up," Sam muttered, examining the stitches without much interest. "When was the last good day, Dean?"

 _Next time, don't dope Sam up with pills, if you want to avoid this crap._

"Can't remember," Dean said shortly, cleaning up the supplies. Sam grabbed his wrist before he could walk away.

"But you must remember one good day," Sam said earnestly. "This entire past year? It couldn't have been completely horrible."

All that could come to Dean's mind, however, was Kevin being killed, the Mark burning on his forearm, the Trials, Sam being possessed by Gadreel, and Abaddon. He shrugged. "I'll think about it, and tell you in the morning. Get some sleep."

Sam's face fell in clear disappointment, but he obediently leaned back onto his pillow. "I'll think of something. A good day. We must have one."

"Maybe," Dean said after a moment, but Sam had already passed out.

 _Doped up Sam means Philosopher Sam. Doped up Sam means awkward questions and thinking about shit that I don't want to think about._

Yet he hardly slept that night. Sam didn't wake once - Dean checked on him multiple times to make sure that he wasn't running a fever from the wound - and he himself laid on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

When _was_ the last good day?

The Mark of Cain burned again on his arm, as though reminding him it had been a long time, and that was why, _that_ was why every day it got harder to get out of bed and keep going, because there were fewer and fewer good days to make him keep going.

* * *

A/N: Not really a heavy chapter until kind of a dark ending. Dean's not suicidal or anything, but I've been rewatching season 9 and there's so much turmoil that it's hard to imagine that the boys never have depressing thoughts late at night.

I hope this fulfilled your prompt sandybeliever!

You're probably all sick of me saying this but once again I am so grateful for all of the reviews, favorites, and follows that I've gotten on this story - it means so much!


	30. Wendigo

**A/N:** Hello everyone! Yeah, so I was gone for a _long_ time. A _very_ long time. All I can say is that I've been busy - college applications, homework, IB requirements, violin, volunteering, etc, etc, and I've also been working on an original writing project, so I guess I didn't have much time to work on this.

But never fear! I don't plan on abandoning this anytime soon, and I'll be trying to update it again. So enjoy!

 **Summary:** Sam gets an injury in the worst circumstances possible.

 **Warnings:** Your typical Winchester profanity.

 **Set:** Season 14, after 14x4 "Mint Condition".

* * *

There were some hunts that went so wrong that Dean was sure that there had to be a curse on their family. There was no chance that their poor luck could get this bad. Dean shifted his weight so that Sam could lean on him better as they hobbled down the rocky trail, nearly tripping over roots in the dark.

It wasn't in the original plan for them to be stuck on an island at night. They had arrived as soon as the tide was low enough for the sand bar to be exposed, and from there it was an easy walk to the island. They were going to waste a wendigo that had been murdering hikers. It was a run-of-the-mill hunt - or so Dean had thought - yet here they were, barely making their way down the hiking trail with no idea of where the wendigo was, and no way to get off of the island.

"Dean, there's no point-" Sam started to say.

"We're leaving this damn island."

"The tide is up. We can't." Sam's breaths were ragged. His knee was sprained, an injury that wasn't life threatening until it was combined with the fact that they were stranded on an island with a wendigo.

"We're going to try." Dean gritted his teeth, swearing as they came up to another small ledge in the trail. Every rock added several minutes to their journey; Sam's knee was sprained so badly that any movement whatsoever must have hurt like hell. Of course, Sam hadn't complained once, but his silence spoke volumes.

"Dean-"

"Shut up. We're getting out of here."

"No. I can hear something."

Dean paused. Sam was right - there were fast footsteps in the distance.

"Shit," he said, pulling Sam forward. Sam gasped slightly at the jostle, but let Dean heave him over the edge of the rocks, nearly falling when they reached the bottom had he not been held up by his brother.

Fast footsteps, crunching in the dead leaves, ran by them again, off to the left. Dean poised his shotgun, ready to shoot at anything that came. Nothing would come of it, of course; they'd lost their flare guns and blowtorches when the wendigo had decided to launch a surprise attack on them. It had stolen their supplies and taken it to who knows where, leaving them with nothing more than their shotguns with silver bullets - useless against a wendigo.

 _We're so screwed. We are so, so screwed._

Sam stopped suddenly. "Dean," he whispered. "You need to run."

"Like hell. We're in this together."

"My knee isn't going to get us anywhere. You need to get of here, or we're both going to die."

Dean would have punched him if he wasn't injured. "The way I see it, we're already screwed. No way off this island except for swimming, no weapons, Cas and Jack aren't answering, not to mention the fugly superspeed son of a bitch tracking us down. I'm not leaving you."

"You have a chance. I don't." Sam's jaw was tight, his hand gripping Dean's shoulder even harder than before.

Dean didn't get to answer. There was a flurry of movement and suddenly he was falling backwards, his forehead throbbing like he'd been nailed with a rock.

 _Can wendigos throw rocks?_

The world was spinning and dark. _Need to move. Get Sam._ He pushed himself to his feet, blinking woozily.

Sam was gone.

* * *

 **Two hours earlier**

"Move faster."

"I'm holding all the weapons! _And_ I'm scouting!"

"Yeah, well, I don't feel like camping out here tonight." Dean was feeling agitated; they were wandering around the island - which wasn't even very large - and still had yet to find the wendigo that they were hunting. Sam was trailing behind him, focused on his map to find the hiking trail that most people were disappearing off of.

"I never complain when you're being slow," Sam added from behind him.

"That's because I'm never slow."

"Yeah? Then how come I'm slowing down for you on more than half of the hunts we go on?"

Dean turned around to stare at him. "You think I'm slow?"

Sam grinned. "No, I think you're getting old."

"Then let's have a race and see who wins," Dean said. "Just like old times."

"Okay. Then after we'll spar and whoever wins gets to have an extra cookie at dinner. Dad will be so proud of us," Sam said behind him.

"Whatever. Make fun of it all you want. You just don't want to lose." To Dean's disappointment, Sam didn't answer. Not that he actually wanted to race Sam, or spar with him, but… a small part of him couldn't help but wonder who would win.

"How much farther until we're on the hot spot?" Dean asked ten minutes later.

He could hear Sam flipping through pages of the map.

"I think we're on it," Sam said, frowning. "It looks like… this is where everyone was disappearing."

They stopped. Dean surveyed the land around them; slightly steep, and dense with pine trees. Rocks jutted out of the earth, making for a rough terrain if it came to a fight.

That was when all hell broke loose. Dean barely had time to process Sam shouting and then barreling into him with his shoulder. They both went down, the weapons spilling out onto the ground just as a fast figure came flying by them. Dean fumbled for the flare gun, loading it, and firing just as the wendigo circled back around, dashing towards them.

He missed; the wendigo dodged the attack.

 _Damn it, it has good reflexes._ He quickly got up, helping Sam to his feet.

"Where'd it go?" he said, twisting his head back and forth. "It couldn't have just left. We're fresh meat."

"There," Sam said suddenly, lunging forward with the blowtorch. A horrible shriek echoed from the monster as the flames licked his torso, but he backed away just in time before knocking into them with so much force that Dean landed at least twenty feet from where he was standing.

He got up again, shaking the leaves from his hair, but this time the wendigo was gone.

"Sammy?" he asked. "You good?"

Sam was sitting up, clutching his knee. "Ow. I'm good."

"Yeah, right. What's hurting?" Dean bent down next to Sam, just like he always had, when Sam was five and used to skin his knees all the time.

"I think I heard a pop." Sam tentatively stretched his right leg forward, to test it, and immediately pulled back. "Shit."

"Sprained it?" Dean reached his hand out to Sam's knee, but Sam shook his head.

"Yeah. It's…" He winced, gingerly laying his palm on the knee. "When we got knocked back, it twisted, and I felt it snap."

"Can you walk?" Dean helped him up from where he was sitting. Sam was standing in a manner that would have appeared strange had Dean not known he was injured; he kept his right knee bent and forward, as though the muscles wouldn't allow him to straighten his leg.

"No."

"You haven't tried."

"Dean, I can't walk on it," Sam said, his face pale. "I can't even straighten it." He hesitated, looking at their bags. "The weapons are all gone."

Dean scrubbed his face with his hand. "Yeah," he said, sighing. "This is a bust. We should head back, get medicine for your knee, then I'll come back tomorrow and finish the job."

"We? I can't walk, Dean. You go back. I can't-"

"Yes, you can. I'm not leaving you out here with a wendigo," Dean said firmly. "Let's go. Lean on me all you need to."

And that was how they started their trek back and quickly discovered that it was going to take much longer than planned to get to the shore of the island.

 _The tide is going to rise soon_ , Dean had thought, looking anxiously out at the horizon where the deep ocean water was visible. One glance at Sam told him his brother was thinking the same thing, but neither of them voiced the concern until later.

 _Jack. If you're listening, get your haloed ass over here as soon as you can._

The prayer had yielded no results, so Dean had even tried praying to Cas, despite Cas not having his wings anymore.

 _Cas, my feathered ass friend, hear my prayer and get thou holy self to us ASAP. Sam's hurt and we're stuck on an island._

But nothing had come of either of the prayers. That left no option but to hobble their way down the rocky island, going slower and slower the darker it got.

* * *

 **Present time**

"Sammy!" Dean shouted, even though the voice in the back of his head was telling him he'd get no answer. "Sam!"

The only sound was that of waves in the distance and crickets chirping loudly.

"Damn wendigo," he muttered, running back the way they had come. The speed felt absurdly fast now, after hobbling with Sam for several hours, but a few minutes into the running and he had to stop to press his hands against his temples.

"Don't get sick," he told himself, willing his head to stop spinning. His hands came away with only a bit of sticky dried blood. That was good; he wasn't too deeply wounded. The dizziness that accompanied the minor concussion could wait. He started sprinting again, calling out Sam's name every so often just in case he would get an answer.

The forest was dark with night. He wouldn't have been able to see at all had it not been a clear night - the moonlight was just bright enough that he could step over rocks and roots without stumbling over every single one.

 _If I were a wendigo, where would I go?_ Dean didn't have an answer and frustration tightened in his chest.

Wendigos liked the underground. Anywhere dark, dank, and hidden was ideal for their lair. They wouldn't be out in the middle of the forest.

 _Then where?_

The waves roared in the distance again, splashing against the rocks. A sudden idea occurred to Dean. If he was wrong, he'd be traveling in the wrong direction completely, but… something told him he was right.

Wiping his sleeve against his forehead to get any more blood off, he took off down the hill, towards the rocky coast.

* * *

Sam felt his wrists first. They were burning, as though coals were pressed into them. He lifted his head wearily, blinking at the darkness. He was in a cave, that much he could tell - there was the echo of the ocean very near and dripping water.

Sam pulled his eyes up to his wrists with difficulty. He was chained to manacles that were attached to the roof of the cave, and they were rubbing excruciatingly against an open wound. The wendigo had grabbed him by the wrist to drag him here, he remembered vaguely. It hadn't exactly been gentle with its claws, as monsters tended to go.

His arms felt sticky. Warm blood was slowly trickling down from his wrists and soaking into his clothing. The only fortunate aspect of the manacles was that it helped to take his weight entirely off of his knee, which was throbbing dully.

"Dean!" he said as loud as he dared; drawing the wendigo's attention to him would only worsen the situation. There was no answer.

Sam pulled at the manacles. They weren't entirely tight; maybe, if he pulled hard enough…

He strained against the manacles, wiggling his wrists to dampen them with blood to get the chains as slick as possible. Twisting around, he braced his left leg against the wall, and tugged hard against the chains. If it came to making a choice between a sprained thumb and becoming wendigo food, he was going to pick the former.

But with only his left leg on the wall all he could manage to do was scrape some of the skin off of his hands. He needed both legs against the wall.

Slowly exhaling, Sam pulled himself upward and placed both legs against the wall. He was briefly reminded of when he used to play on the monkey bars as a kid; he would assume the same position to dangled upside down on the bars.

 _Ignore the knee. Ignore it. Don't pay attention._ Sam repeated the words over and over to himself in his head, yet as soon as he began to push with his right leg, pain so sharp that it made his vision go dark stabbed at his knee.

"Dean!" he said again on impulse, desperately hoping to hear his brother's footsteps or voice, but there was nothing except for the frothing of the ocean waves. He was entirely alone.

* * *

It would have taken him hours to find the cave had he not seen the wendigo lurking outside of it chewing on a disembodied leg. For one terrifying moment he thought that it was Sam's leg until he saw the shoe attached to the foot - it wasn't Sam's shoe. Releasing his breath, Dean continued through the forest, getting closer to the rocky edge of the island without the wendigo noticing him.

Dean crept forward, pulling his flare gun out of his pocket slowly. The wendigo had its back turned on him. Bits of flesh were flying from his mouth and he was chewing so loudly that Dean was able to come up from behind him.

"Hey asshole," he said. The wendigo whirled around, teeth bared, and Dean shot the flare gun directly into its face. The monster shrieked, flames erupting around its face, and for good measure Dean shot it again. It went straight into its open mouth.

"Chow down on that," he said, backing up as the wendigo flailed in pain and finally collapsed in a burned heap on the rocks. Dean's satisfaction was momentary, however; a wave of nausea burgeoned and he had to kneel down while it passed.

 _Son of a bitch._ His mouth felt dry. The concussion could wait, though - Sam was still down in the cave. He got to his feet, pausing only for his head to stop spinning wildly, and headed into the cave.

In the cave it was pitch black. The moonlight couldn't reach very far in, so Dean turned on his flashlight. A small ravine was on his left, where the ocean water was swirling. He stepped to the right slightly. A nighttime swim was not on the agenda; not now, when Sam was gone.

"Sammy?" His call went unanswered.

The cave went back far. Dean couldn't help but wonder how far into the island he had walked, because the tunnel seemed to be an endless pit, like the mouth of the ocean.

He jumped when his flashlight fell on the first body. It was nothing but a skeleton, and a small one at that - either a woman or a teenage, he wasn't sure. He would have stopped to salt and burn the bones to save them a future trip out here, but the salt was in the Impala. The cave was wet and the bones would light as soon as the ocean would dry up.

He carried on, walking past more and more bones. Some of them weren't decayed yet, and judging by the smell he was entering the wendigo's kitchen.

"You bastard," he said, looking down at the body of a young boy that couldn't have been older than ten. "Sam!" Still no answer.

Yet it was only ten seconds later that his flashlight fell upon the body in the distance, dangling from manacles.

"Sammy!" he shouted, running forward.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was weak. "Dean, I'm… I can't get out."

"I got you," Dean said automatically, approaching his brother. "Geez, Sammy. You can't escape one hunt unscathed."

Sam managed a laugh. "And I thought I was getting away with just a sprained knee."

Dean eyed the blood on his arms. "Bad?"

"Just a bit of scraped up wrists," Sam said. "Did you kill it?" The change of subject told Dean instantly that Sam was in pain, but he put it aside for the moment and began to work on the manacles with his lock pick. "Yeah. Mr. Wendigo's feeling a bit toasty."

"Good." Sam was barely touching the ground, dangling from the ceiling, and Dean didn't want to think about how chafed his wrists probably were.

"Okay, I got it. Hold onto me," Dean said. "You're probably going to drop. You ready?"

Sam nodded. Dean finished picking the lock, and as expected, Sam dropped to the ground, gasping in pain as he hit the rocks.

"Stupid… knee," Sam said, his voice pinched. "Can we get the hell out of here?"

"Sam, your wrists." Dean grabbed his brother's arms. "He clawed you. That's gonna need stitches."

"Oh. Okay."

"Hold onto me. I'll help you up."

Sam obediently grabbed onto Dean who helped him get into a relatively standing position.

 _Too compliant._

"You're still bleeding," Dean said, and took off his flannel despite the cold of the night. He ripped it in two and wrapped the pieces around each of Sam's wrists. "Come on."

The walk back felt like an eternity. Sam was fighting to keep walking, Dean could tell, despite the fact that Dean was nearly carrying him the whole way.

"Hold on," he found himself saying nearly every minute, though he wasn't sure if it was directed to himself or Sam. His concussion was raging in his head, and helping Sam walk was no easy task.

"Dean, I can't-"

" _Yes_ , you can."

"My knee. It's hurting. Go get out of here, then come back for me later."

"Yeah, so you can bleed out in here?" Sam didn't answer. "Your wrists are bad, Sammy. I don't even dare stitch them. We're going straight to a hospital."

"I don't need a hospital."

"Tell me that when you're upright and not near passing out."

Dean should have realized something else would be wrong, because he was feeling entirely too good about the fact that they'd made it out of the cave.

"The tide," Sam said weakly, looking at the ocean with dejection. "We're still stuck. When's low tide?"

Dean checked his watch. "About eight hours," he said. "Damn it." The ocean was rippling in the moonlight, seemingly serene. The mainland was a mere two thousand feet away, but it might have been two thousand miles with Sam's knee.

"We can't swim, Dean," Sam said. "We're going to have to wait it out."

"Damn it!" he said again, but this time, it was a yell, and it echoed across the rocks.

"Dean, it's okay. I'll be fine."

"You're not fine!"

"I'm awake! I'm bleeding, but I'm not passing out, and I won't be anytime soon. Dean, you need to trust me." Sam gripped Dean's arm as he sat down on the rocks clumsily to keep his knee away from too much movement. "Trust me."

"I can't lose you." Dean was breathing faster than he should have, and it didn't help that Sam was covered in blood and still bleeding. "Not on this island. Not here."

"I'm not going anywhere." Sam smiled weakly. "You know, it should be you reassuring me, not the other way around."

Dean looked at Sam stonily and then studied his wrists again. Blood was sluggishly trickling out of the wounds.

"You said the wendigo clawed you?"

Sam nodded.

"This needs to be cleaned," Dean said. "It's gonna hurt like a bitch."

Sam closed his eyes. He looked too pale in the moonlight, and there were deep shadows under his eyes. "I was wondering when you were going to say that."

"We can't let it get infected," Dean added, standing up stiffly. He took the remaining bit of flannel that wasn't soaked with blood and put it in the saltwater, letting it absorb as much as possible. He made his way back to Sam, trying not to grimace at the sickening wounds.

"Ready?" he asked. Sam didn't even say anything; he was leaned backwards on the rocks as though asleep, but his eyes were open and staring vacantly at the sky. Dean didn't like it. "Hey. Dude. You ready?"

"Yeah. Go for it." Still too apathetic for Dean's taste, but at least he was awake and talking. He put the dripping flannel on Sam's wrists, wiping off the blood and cleaning out the scrapes. Sam didn't make one sound the whole time, but he could feel his tension while he cleaned.

"There. Done," he said, taking the flannel and laying it on the rock. "You good?"

Sam was silent.

"Sammy!" Dean shook Sam a bit rougher than necessary, and Sam's eyes flew open.

"Just resting," Sam assured him, sitting up and wincing at his knee.

"My ass. It should be clean, but you still need stitches." Dean felt tired, too tired. He leaned back on the rocks next to Sam.

The sky was bright. The stars were shining, winking, mesmerizing. Dean pressed a hand to his forehead to try to get the pain in his forehead to stop. He turned his eyes to the moon. It was like a giant night light, glowing and smiling at the earth. The waves were even better, splashing on the shore… rippling in the moonlight, foaming back and forth and turning the rocks around underwater…

He woke up with a dry mouth. Dean coughed, rolling over. "Sammy?"

Sam was asleep.

"Sam! Wake up!" He grabbed his brother. "Sammy!"

"Dean?" Sam blinked his eyes open and looked at Dean groggily. "Where are we?"

"Shit, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have let you fall asleep." He glanced out at the water, and his heart leapt at seeing the sandbar exposed. The tide was back down. "Let's get out of here."

Guilt pounded in his heart the whole way back. He shouldn't have fallen asleep. It could have cost Sam his life, he told himself as they slowly limped their way to the Impala. For one terrifying moment he thought the keys were in the lost bag of weapons that the wendigo had stolen, but they were in his back pocket.

"We're home, Sammy," he said, helping Sam into the passenger side. "Let's go."

Sam frowned. "Dean… why… what are you doing?"

"What do you mean?"  
 **"** You fell asleep, you're moving slowly… you're hurt."

"I'm fine," Dean said. "It's you that-"

"Do you have a concussion?"

 _Leave it to Sam to worry about me right now._

"Just a minor one. Don't worry. We're going to the hospital." Dean turned the key in the ignition and Baby roared to life. "

"You fell asleep with a concussion." Sam sounded shell-shocked. "Dean, that's not-"

"I know, I know." He turned on the radio to some hard rock. It was painful to listen to, and he was sure Sam wasn't a fan of it either, but it kept him awake. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Sam, that was one big screw-up of a hunt."

Sam rolled down the window. "Can we just leave?" He sounded petulant, and Dean was reminded of the teenage Sam who used to get angry with him and their dad almost every day.

"Yeah, Sammy. We're out of here," he said. "Let's get you fixed up."

 **A/N:** Hey everyone! Just want to remind you that I'm always looking for prompts, so drop one in a PM or a review if there's a specific chapter you'd like to see!  
Also, I'm very grateful for any reviews you can leave about the chapter - I spend hours on each one and it's rewarding to get feedback, whether positive or negative. I know that you probably have better things to do but any review at all would be very very very much appreciated! :)  
Thanks so much for reading, and hopefully there will be another update soon!


	31. Ghoul

**A/N:** I opened up my doc again to start working on this when it occurred to me that it's been a long time since I've updated on here. I'm so sorry that I'm so sporadic, everyone. I'm terrible about sticking to a writing schedule.

I now have three prompts for this story, so hopefully those will keep me occupied for a while! I'm starting with the prompt from CabbyCat:

Maybe something to do with ghouls? Like in the episode Jump the Shark? Idk I liked the part between the ghouls and Sam in that episode.

I'm on it! I also loved that episode and it's making me want to rewatch it.

This is set in season 7, because I love writing season 7 Sam.

Warning: Brief theme of suicide.

Also, brief disclaimer - I have zip medical knowledge and based anything I write off of the pathetic information I can find online. If anything's a bit off, or wonky, I apologize! Creative license, right?

* * *

Sam hated feeling weak. He loathed the worried looks Dean kept giving him, the constant scrutinization, the subtle over-protective precautions that his brother kept making when they were on hunts. It was patronizing, and humiliating, and made him feel as though he had some sort of contagious disease.

To be fair, it wasn't that unreasonable for Dean to be concerned, he supposed. A contagious disease would probably be preferable to hallucinations of the devil. Not to mention the previous week in the warehouse, when Lucifer had deceived him.

Still, it didn't make him any less irritated that Dean was currently looking at him sideways, as though to gauge whether or not he was sane. He ignored his brother, choosing to instead open up a closet door and shine his flashlight in.

 _No ghoul._

"Maybe this ghoul hunt is looking to be a bust, Sam," Dean said as he checked the kitchen. "We've been in this town for three weeks and there hasn't been a whisper of anything."

"Could've been wild animal attacks," Sam said, but something was unsettled deep in his chest, an instinct that told him it wasn't an animal attack. "I don't know, Dean. How about we stay for another couple of days, and if there's nothing, we hit a hunt nearby just in case we need to come back?"

"Yeah." Dean sounded unconvinced. "I want to get the hell out of here. We're nomads, Sam. We're not meant to be cooped up in a little ski town."

"Then I'll finish this hunt on my own and you can go try to find another hunt. I'll meet up with you when this one's over." Sam chose his words purposefully, testing to see his brother's reaction, despite that he knew what it would be. As expected, Dean gave him the sideways look again.

"No way in hell that's happening. With our crappy luck you'll trip Lucifer and he'll make you think that ghouls are friends or something." To emphasize Dean pointed his flashlight at Sam. "We're not splitting up."

 _Dean, you need to chill about all of this,_ Sam was tempted to say. _Stop acting like my babysitter._ But in truth he had no reason for Dean to believe that he would be okay on his own, not after his hallucinations had almost gotten them killed.

"This house is clear," Sam said finally. "We've checked every room, and there's bupkis."

"Okay," Dean said quickly. Sam could tell that he was itching to get back to the cabin they were staying in. "So, what are you feeling? Burgers? Pizza? Pu pu platter for two?"

"We're out of money," Sam reminded him. "You blew it all last night with that stupid bet at the bar-"

"It wasn't stupid."

"Then how did you lose two hundred dollars?"

"I misjudged the situation!" Dean waved his flashlight across the yard as though to check for a ghoul lurking in the garden. "So what's your plan, then?"

"I'll hack a credit card and we can scam our way into dinner," Sam said wearily. "If the wifi works, at least." As much as Dean was the one anxious to leave, Sam wouldn't miss this town either. The wifi was spotty, at best, and it was wedged in the middle of nowhere, the only restaurant being a dirty little pub that he seriously doubted had been approved by the FDA.

The sky was thick with clouds, because there wasn't a star visible. They had just made it back to the Impala when Sam felt a raindrop land on the back of his hand, and by the time they were bumping along the dirt road that led back to the main road, there was a torrential downpour falling from the sky.

"I hate this town," Dean said for what must have been the thirtieth time as they drove through the rundown center of the village.

"At least we're saving money. Motels aren't cheap," Sam reminded him as they took a turn off of the main road and headed west onto another dirt road. They were taking up temporary residence in an abandoned cabin several miles outside of town, and though it was free to stay in, Dean had expressed his indignance at driving Baby down the pothole-infested dirt road that the cabin lay at the end of.

"I just think that-" Dean was cut off as they hit a pothole that had been hidden in the shadows. "Son of a bitch! I'm so sorry, Baby, I'm so sorry." He caressed the dashboard soothingly. "We'll get you out of here soon, I promise."

Sam snorted. "You two need to get a room."

Dean tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and didn't answer. Sam suddenly sensed what his brother was about to say.

 _He's going to check up on me, and make sure my melon isn't cracked._ The familiar feeling of being dirty and weak crawled up his spine.

"So… was there anyone else today, hanging out?" Dean glanced away from the road to make eye contact with Sam. "Anyone hitch any rides?"

"You could just ask me if I saw Lucifer, Dean. And no, I didn't. He's been gone for a couple of days."

Dean looked hopeful. "Maybe he's gone for good. Maybe you're done seeing him."

"Yeah, maybe," Sam said, unconvinced.

The rain pounded harder on the windshield. The Impala's wipers couldn't quite keep up with the downpour and the dirt road was quickly become a muddy, puddle-filled runway.

"Tomorrow we should check out the morgue again and see if we missed something," Sam said to change the subject. "I was sure it was a ghoul, but maybe it's something else. Or something that we've never seen before."

Dean shook his head. "It's gotta be a ghoul. Graves dug up with the bodies eaten, people going missing and then their evil clones showing up… what else does that?"

"Like I said, something that we've never seen before."

"I hope not. That means we'll just have to stay in this town even-" Dean had almost finished his sentence when there was a sudden bang and the car jolted so much that Sam's head almost slammed into the window. The engine sputtered out and the car nearly careened off of the road, but Dean wrangled the wheel just in time; they slid forward and came to a halt in the middle of the road.

"Dammit!" Dean shouted, gripping the wheel. "Dammit, dammit…" He patted the dashboard a bit more roughly. "Baby, why are you doing this to us?!"

"Potholes and the Impala don't mix," Sam said, feeling surprisingly apathetic towards their situation. He rolled his eyes as Dean rummaged in the backseat for the toolbox that they kept under the seat. "Just fix it tomorrow, Dean. We're only two miles from the cabin. We can walk."

"It's downpouring."

"Yeah. And it'll take you even longer to fix the car." Sam sighed as the rain seemed to beat even louder on the roof, mocking them. "Or we can wait the rain out and-"

"No. A little rain never stopped a Winchester."

"So we're walking back?"

Dean lifted the toolbox. "No. I'm fixing her now. There's no way in hell that I'm leaving Baby out here alone in the rain."

"Alright. Enjoy your little mechanic stint out here. I'm going back to the cabin." Sam opened up his door. The rain was chilled and it made goosebumps crawl up his arms. "I'll see you back there later."

Dean's mouth drifted open slightly. Sam didn't say anything else and zipped up his jacket, wishing that he had a hood. Glancing up at the sky briefly, he began to walk, dodging the deep potholes that he couldn't see until they were right in front of him.

"Alright. I'm coming with you," he heard behind him, and then Dean was by his side. It only irritated him.

"No, it's fine. Stay with the Impala and fix her."

"Yeah, it's okay," Dean said casually, but Sam knew why he was walking with him.

 _He doesn't trust me to walk back alone._

"Dean, you said that there was 'no way in hell' you were walking back without the car. I can walk back on my own," Sam said, matching the casual tone Dean had employed.

"Nah. It'll take too long. We can just head back."

Sam stopped walking. "Dean, cut the bullshit. Just admit that you don't want me walking back alone because you're scared I'll trip Lucifer and wander off into the woods or something-"

Dean spread his arms wide. "Yeah? And you think that's so unreasonable? Sam, I don't want to leave the Impala, but I'm definitely not letting you go back alone."

"I can be alone for thirty minutes, Dean, I'm not a five year old!" Sam had to raise his voice more than he would have wanted because the roar of the rain was so loud.

"No, you're not." Dean's face was grim. "You're not, and I get that. But last week I found you in a warehouse with a gun and Lucifer in your head. It's too dangerous, Sam, and I'm not risking it."

"I haven't even seen him in a couple of days! As far as I know, the hallucinations have stopped! Let me have one hour of peace and walk back alone, Dean!"

"I can't do that and you know it. You know it, Sam!" Dean was shouting now too but Sam's mind suddenly moved to the figure behind Dean, moving in the shadows.

"Hey, Sammy. Thought I was gone?" Lucifer said, sidling up next to Dean and sticking his hands in his pockets. He beamed. "That's what I love doing. Pulling the carpet out from under you - it's priceless."

Dean was still talking but Sam hadn't heard a word of what he said. With enormous effort he pulled his attention to his brother, who was just finishing his sentence.

"-could come back? Because I do!" Dean was staring with a hard expression at Sam.

"Yeah. Whatever," Sam said, anxious to keep walking down the road. Water was now dripping down his face and down his shirt and the skies still weren't letting up. He turned on his heel and continued down the dirt road. After a moment, he heard Dean follow him wordlessly.

"Let's have some fun," the devil said, rubbing his hands as he trotted next to Sam. "Should I hurt Dean? Or you?" He rubbed his chin with his hand. "Hm. The opportunities are endless."

Sam would've shouted for him to go away but that would have been a dead giveaway to Dean that he was seeing the devil again, and right now the last thing that he wanted was for Dean to know.

 _He'll see me as even weaker. He'll have more reason to keep an eye on me like I'll shatter at any moment._

For the first time in a long time, Sam felt defeated. His chest was compressed, as though someone were pushing in on it, and he held his head high to keep Dean from having reason to look at him.

"Look at me, Sam! Hey! Look over here!" Lucifer called. There was a horrible squelching sound from where Dean was and Sam was sure that his brother was currently impaled with some gruesomely sharp metal object. He fought the urge to look and kept walking.

"How about this?" Lucifer asked. There was a ripping sound behind him, followed by the crunch of bones.

 _Don't look. Don't look. It's not real._

"Dean Winchester tastes like sweat and grease," Lucifer commented, catching up to Sam and gnawing on a limb. Sam's stomach flipped horribly. "Oh, wait - a bit of stringy skin here." He pulled at his teeth, and Sam glanced to the left, a mistake that he regretted a moment later. Lucifer was pulling a long string of flesh from out of his teeth, blood on his lips, and Dean was fallen on the road behind him, his leg missing.

"Go away!" Sam shouted, and he began to run. He didn't care that Dean was going to see him going off his rocker, he didn't care that now Dean's protectiveness would get even worse - all he wanted was to get back to the cabin and away from the devil who was laughing hysterically.

"Sam, stop!" A hand grabbed his shoulder. Sam whirled around, face-to-face with Dean, who was pale with the rain dripping down his nose. "Sammy! You good?"

"I just want to get back to the cabin," was all Sam said. He avoided looking back at Lucifer. "Dean, he's…" He couldn't bring himself to tell what he was seeing.

"It's all good. No one is here. It's just you and me." Dean gripped Sam's hand. "Got it? No one else. Just us."

"Oh, and the ghoul," Lucifer said, nodding to a redheaded man creeping up from behind Dean. "This'll be a fun party."

"Is he still there? Is Lucifer still here?" Dean asked, digging his thumb into Sam's palm.

"Yeah. And there's a ghoul, too," Sam said, fear suddenly gripping his insides. "Dean, is it… is that real?"

"No, there's no one-" Dean turned around and stopped short. "Shit. That's a real ghoul." He pulled out his gun, poising it at the ghoul, who was about forty feet away. Sam stood back, feeling irrationally unsure of what to do.

Dean suddenly pointed the gun at himself. "Sam, get away."

"Dean - what are you-"

"I'm warning you. Stay away." Dean gripped the gun and jabbed it against his own throat. "Sammy, you might not understand this now, but I promise you will soon. I promise." He gazed at Sam with a seriousness that made Sam's gut wrench.

"Dean, you can't do that. There has to be a hex bag, or a curse, or…" He fumbled for an excuse. "Just put the gun down. Fight it, Dean, there's something going on here!"

"Just let me be, Sam," Dean said quietly, and then Sam knew what was about to happen, and he dove at Dean, grabbing the gun and throwing it as far as he could into the woods.

"Dean-" he gasped, rolling into the mud and shivering. "Dean, we need to-"

The redheaded ghoul was standing next to them now. He was holding a metal pipe, something Sam hadn't seen when he was farther away and obscured in the dark.

"Sam, stone number one!" Dean was shouting as he began to punch at the ghoul.

Lucifer appeared next to him. "Nice job, Sam. You just threw away your only weapon." He clapped his hands. "That was fun. You really thought Dean was going to shoot himself, didn't you? You're so gullible!"

"I…" Sam fell silent.

 _Dean wasn't going to shoot himself. Lucifer's messing with me. And now-_ Dread filled his stomach. He'd tossed their weapon into the woods, and Dean was wrestling with a ghoul while he just sat here in the mud-

Head spinning wildly, he got to his feet to join the fight just as the ghoul swung the pipe and nicked Dean in the head. His brother crumpled to the ground immediately.

"That was too easy," the ghoul said, grinning at Sam. "Stupid. What are you, crazy?"

"Yeah, pretty much," Lucifer answered. "He's hallucinating the devil, believe it or not."

Sam felt for his pockets but he had no weapons. He took a step back, raising his fists in challenge. The ghoul approached him, grinning.

"Look out, Sam!" Lucifer shouted suddenly, and then there was a knife coming through his abdomen. Sam gasped, looking down at the blood streaming out of his shirt as though a faucet had been turned on.

That was all the ghoul needed. Sam felt the pipe collide with his skull while Lucifer chanted in the background, " _Made you look, dirty crook, stole your mother's pocketbook, took a dime, now it's mine, now you look like Frankenstein…_ **"**.

* * *

When Dean woke up, he was soaking wet, but it had stopped raining. It was nighttime, because the sky was pitch black, but he had no way of telling what time it was.

He shifted his head slightly for Sam and it made fireworks bang in the top of his head where he'd been knocked with the pipe. Memories came flooding back, too vividly.

Sam shouting at no one. The ghoul catching them by surprise. Sam unexpectedly diving at him and throwing the gun away, presumably seeing some sort of hallucination from Lucifer. The pipe hitting him in the head.

"Sam?" he said, gritting his teeth. "Sammy?"

He couldn't understand why he was still alive until he realized that he was tied up against a tree.

 _Damn concussion._ It wasn't a bad one, but it was making his vision blurry and his stomach nauseous. The ghoul was saving him for a midnight snack undoubtedly.

 _But where's Sam?_

"Sam!" he shouted, but there was no answer. He wiggled from where he was stuck and scanned his surroundings.

Leaves, leaves, and more leaves. Pine needles, a few pebbles, and dirt. Nothing that could break through the rope that bound him to the thick oak he was pressed against.

Closing his eyes with frustration, he began to rub his tied wrists against the tree, up and down, up and down.

* * *

He knew he was in the Impala before he opened his eyes. The last thing he remembered was confusion, and Lucifer, and rain, and Dean shouting.

The sudden sharp pain on his forehead was testament to why his memories felt foggy. The pipe, he remembered. The ghoul had swung it at him.

 _So why am I in the Impala? Dean must have fixed it. Or we're waiting until the rain stops._

But there was no rain on the roof. It was cold in the car, though, and even though he was wearing a flannel and jacket he was freezing.

He was laying in the backseat, staring at the ceiling, and his wrists hurt. He shifted them slightly; he was tied up.

 _Dean must have really thought I was out of control if he tied me up._ The thought left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. With an effort he tried to sit up but he was effectively tied down. A strange panic set over him; he didn't like being immobile. Usually he didn't feel so anxious in these types of situations - after all, he'd been doing this since he was in high school - but for some reason he was unnerved.

"Dean?" he said, but as soon as the name left his mouth he knew that was not Dean sitting in the front seat. There was a shock of red hair and a freckled face turned around to grin at him.

"Try again," the ghoul said.

Sam glanced out the window. It was difficult to see from where he was stuck laying in the backseat, but they were still parked on the dirt road.

"Couldn't fix the car, could you?" he asked, realizing only then that there was a needle in his arm. A steady stream of blood was piping through a thin tube that led to the front seat.

 _That explains it._ Blood loss. Having identified the source of his anxious feeling and the cold, he felt marginally more confident. Besides, Lucifer was nowhere to be seen.

"You all think you're so clever," he said. Better to monologue than to lay there doing nothing. "You realize that we've killed almost every monster we've encountered? Within an hour you'll be a steaming pile of freshly killed ghoul."

"Yeah, good luck with that," the ghoul said cheerfully. "Your brother's tied up outside. He'll be my food for next week. I'm eating you first."

Sam couldn't think of an answer for that. As far as he could tell, they were screwed.

"Even better, I'll take on your visage once I've eaten you. Then I'll eat your brother. That'll be fun for him, won't it?"

"You're sick."

"So are you. I saw your little crazy act. What did you even think you were doing?" The ghoul raised his hands. "I'm not prying, man, but I've never seen someone hallucinate that badly. I could smell the emotions coming off of you from a mile away." He took a sip from a cup filled with dark red liquid. Sam's stomach tumbled; it was his own blood.

The ghoul smacked his lips. "Salty. Tastes a bit like tomato soup, if I'm being honest. Tomato soup that's been heavily seasoned."

Nausea rose in his throat and Sam couldn't tell if it was from seeing the ghoul drink his blood or because of the blood loss. Most likely the latter, he decided. Seeing blood get drank was a part of the job and it didn't usually make his stomach roll.

He covertly tried to angle his wrist against the seat to get the needled to come out, but he wasn't able to move his arm. Even if he could, the ghoul noticed his movement.

"You're not going anywhere," the ghoul said simply. "Sorry, dude."

Sam exhaled and stared blankly at the ceiling. It was rare that he felt this stuck, and it was making his heart pound. He tried to measure his breaths.

 _Stay calm._ He knew it was the blood loss making him so anxious, but it still didn't help lessen the rhythmic thrumming of his heart against his chest. He just had to hope that Dean was able to escape from where he was tied up.

He wasn't quite sure how much time had passed the next time the ghoul spoke. It was difficult to keep track - the sky was still pitch black so there was no sun to gauge the passing time. It didn't help that he could feel the needle sticking in his arm like a ticking time bomb. He wasn't sure how much blood he was losing, but judging by the heart sips the ghoul was enjoying and his impending queasiness, it was a lot.

"We couldn't find you." Sam wasn't quite sure why he was talking but it helped to distract from his nausea. "We searched for a couple of weeks."

"I move around a lot. I knew you were in town," the ghoul said, shrugging. "I was going to jump you in your sleep tonight but then your car broke down. It was too easy."

"But…" Sam felt like he couldn't process the words. The facts were spinning in his head, just out of reach, and he couldn't grasp them and put them together. "We looked everywhere."

The ghoul looked at him apprehensively. "Don't vomit, please. I'm trying to enjoy my meal here."

Sam tried to lift his head and dizziness encircled him. Closing his eyes in pain he tried to lift his arms, to grip his temples, and for a moment he couldn't understand why his arms wouldn't lift. He tried again, failed, and vaguely remembered the ties.

The edges of his vision were dark. The cold he had been feeling earlier was replaced with a sudden warmth and he shifted again, uncomfortable, and panicked slightly at his inability to move.

 _Dean will come. He has to come._

* * *

Dean was feeling both relieved and pissed when his ropes finally snapped.

He was pissed for several reasons. Sam had seen Lucifer again, the Impala was stranded and broken down, his wrists hurt like hell from rubbing the rope against the tree repeatedly, and he was still so wet that he felt like a soggy mushroom.

At the same time, the feeling of the ropes snapping was so immensely relieving that he grinned in spite of himself, getting up and stretching.

 _Now to find Sam._

He turned around, trying to orient himself. In the distance he could see smoke from the town, so he guessed that the road was to his right, and he began to walk.

He'd guessed correctly. Within a minute he'd emerged on the dirt road with the potholes, the Impala a mere hundred feet away. He started out into the open before seeing a head shift in the car, a head that was definitely not Sam's silhouette because the hair was too short.

 _That damn ghoul is sitting in my Baby._

The only issue was that the weapons were in the car.

He'd had his gun in his pocket earlier, until Sam had tossed it into the woods. While a gun wouldn't kill the ghoul - he'd have to decapitate it - it was still better than nothing. Hoping that the ghoul hadn't seen him yet, he went back into the woods to the approximate area where the gun had been flung.

It took him about five minutes to find it. Relief flowed through him upon seeing the small black gun, and he cocked it.

"Let's go kick some ghoul ass," he said, and with that he crept to the car.

The ghoul hadn't seen him. Dean came up low and slowly to the passenger side where he hoped desperately that he wouldn't be seen, and then threw the door open. Judging by the sound of surprise on the inside he'd caught the ghoul completely unaware.

He fired the gun as quickly as he could, aiming for the red hair vicinity. There was the sound of bullets hitting flesh and a growl of pain, and then the ghoul was on top of him, biting at his face. Dean nailed him in the jaw with a swift punch and they rolled onto the dirt road, kicking and punching.

A blow to his head took him aback. It was where he'd been hit with the pipe, and for a terrifying moment his vision tunneled and he was relying solely upon sound to hit the ghoul. With a stroke of luck his fist made contact with the ghoul's chin and the monster fell backwards. Dean didn't waste any time in getting to his feet and sprinting to the trunk of the Impala. He didn't waste time digging around for his favorite machete but grabbed the first blade he saw.

The ghoul was ready for him. He tackled Dean, taking them both down again and pinning his hands down. Dean struggled, tugging with all his might to get his arms free, but the ghoul was strong. He thrust his knee upward and his arms suddenly were free. With a quick, fluid movement, he swung his right arm upward, cutting cleanly through the air and right throw the neck above him. With a satisfying _plop_ the head fell to the ground, eyes unseeing, and rolled down into the ditch on the side of the road.

Dean dusted himself off. He was bleeding on his forehead, but that didn't matter.

"Sam!" he called, but there was no answer. He stumbled over to the car, peering inside, and his heart leapt at the sight of his younger brother, albeit unconscious, sprawled in the backseat.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered at the spilled cartons of blood that had pooled on the floor of the car during their fight. There was a needle in Sam's arm, and the tube had been jerked slightly so that the blood was dripping freely to the ground.

"Sammy, it's okay," he found himself saying, even though Sam was unconscious. He gently pulled the needle out, wrinkling his nose at the coppery scent of blood that had filled the car. Dean took a bit of his own shirt and ripped it, then tied the fabric tightly around Sam's arm.

"Dean?" Sam said softly, his eyes opening. "I knew you'd come."

"Of course I did. You think I'd leave you in here to become a human raisin?" Dean said lightly, helping Sam to lay in a more comfortable position.

"Where… where's the ghoul?" Sam said in a whisper. His face was dangerously pale.

"Taken care of," Dean assured him. "We're going to…" he trailed off suddenly. They couldn't drive to the hospital, because the car was broken down. "Dammit! Sammy, I need you to stay awake. I've got to fix the car."

With frantic hands he grabbed the toolbox and set to work on the car. Sam watched him through hazy eyes as he dug through the tools, looking for what he knew the Impala needed. He'd heard the loud bang under the hood when they hit the pothole, and instinct told him what he needed to fix.

Fortunately, luck was on their side and the flashlight didn't burn out, nor did it take more than ten minutes for Dean to find the issue and fix it. By the time that he had the car running and they were on the way to the hospital, though, Sam's eyes kept fluttering shut and it was taking an obscene amount of shouting to keep him awake.

"You're going to be okay, Sammy," Dean said as he cruised right through a red light without bothering to even slow down. "It's going to be okay."

Something deep inside him, though, wasn't sure if he was reassuring Sam or himself.

* * *

The sterile smell told Sam where he was immediately. The voice that followed made his stomach flip.

"Rise and shine!" Lucifer said brightly. "Today's going to be a great day!" He turned to Dean, who was sleeping in the chair next to Sam's bed. "Hey, Dean! Should we rip out Sam's eyeballs or cut off his tongue?" He contemplated Sam for a moment and then pulled out a curved knife. "Eyeballs. Sounds good to me."

"No. Stay away," Sam warned, backing himself against the edge of the hospital bed. "Stay away - I'll kill you, I swear, I'm going to rip out your heart someday and-"

"And what?" Lucifer twirled the knife. Sam scrambled backwards and fell out of the bed. The cold floor was almost more jarring than the impact and he saw stars for a moment. "Get away from me, you son of a bitch!"

"Sam!"

Suddenly Dean was there, gripping Sam's palm again with his thumbs pressed painfully into the scar on his hand. "Sammy, it's okay."

"Dean." Sam closed his eyes. "Dean, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I thought it was under control. I swear, I thought it might be over… I hadn't seen him in several days, and-" The memory of himself throwing Dean's gun away came rushing back. "I almost got us killed."

Dean surveyed him with alert but exhausted eyes. "You don't need to apologize for anything."

"Yeah, I do. Just accept the apology, Dean," Sam said, already feeling frustrated. "I caused all of this. If you hadn't come in when you did, I-"

"I said you didn't need to apologize," Dean said more sharply. "Yeah, you scared the shit out of me and it wasn't a fun night, but it _wasn't your fault._ Got it?"

Sam didn't answer. Guilt was throbbing in his head. He felt sickened, like he wanted to throw up but couldn't.

Dean helped him back into the bed. "You had to get a blood transfusion. It wasn't pretty, Sam. You lost a lot of blood. More than either of us have ever lost at once." He sighed. "I told you, I hate this town."

Sam bit his lip so hard that he tasted blood. "Can we leave?" He felt like he was thirteen again, begging his dad and brother to bust him out of the hospital after he'd broken his ankle on a salt and burn.

"How are you feeling?" Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. "Like I was a human raisin ten hours ago. I'm fine now, Dean. Really."

"Yeah, because when a Winchester says they're fine, they're telling the truth," Dean said a bit forcefully, but there was a glint of a smile on his lips. "Yeah, we can bust out of here. But only after the doctor checks up on you again. Deal?"

"Fine," Sam said, rubbing at the scar on his hand. "And then we're never coming back here again."

"That," Dean said, settling in the chair next to Sam, "is the best idea you've ever had."

* * *

 **A/N:** The end!  
People requested that I include a more "comfort" scene at the end, so I tried to do that this time - let me know if I did it justice!

Thanks again to CabbyCat for the prompt - you're the best!  
I'm so grateful for every single one of you that takes the time to leave a review. I mean it. You are all the best!


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